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"Turn her out,"
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Cecil
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very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry
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voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the
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turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine
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out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but
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the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built
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again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal
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"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen." He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth. Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch. "I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?" Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood. "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and touched her knee with his own. She flushed again and said: "What height?" "'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?' "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no more. What's this place?" "Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself. The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him. "Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?" "My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?" "Yes; I met them abroad." "Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively. "Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?" "Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!" She nodded. "My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down." "I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing." "The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy. "Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood." "Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome." "It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my troubles to
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Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil. "Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions. "The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will never be the same again." As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out of her. "Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!" Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out Miss Flack." "Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?" "But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden."<|quote|>"Turn her out,"</|quote|>said Cecil bravely. Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy. This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable. "The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves." Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful. "You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk." "Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?" "Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy. Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the
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A Room With A View
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"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."
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Henry
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deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life
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in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows
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Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and
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joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve
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the box. "I m hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps." "That s good. What ll you have?" "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson s. It s not a bit the thing to go for here." "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to drink. That s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?" "Afraid I don t." "Well, what s the point of being practical if you can t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them." "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!" "What s that, father?" "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can t." "Percy, do you know of anything?" "I can t say I do," said Mr. Cahill. "How like you! You re never any
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Mr. Cahill on board. There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came to her at Simpson s in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, if erroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished she had never come out of her backwater, where nothing happened except art and literature, and where no one ever got married or succeeded in remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise. "Father might be of the party--yes, father was." With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished. "I thought I d get round if I could," said he. "Evie told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don t pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you don t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after your young clerks?" "No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him into the box. "I m hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps." "That s good. What ll you have?" "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson s. It s not a bit the thing to go for here." "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to drink. That s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?" "Afraid I don t." "Well, what s the point of being practical if you can t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them." "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!" "What s that, father?" "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can t." "Percy, do you know of anything?" "I can t say I do," said Mr. Cahill. "How like you! You re never any good." "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!" "Well, you aren t. Miss Schlegel, is he?" The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles s." "With pleasure." "No, you d hate it," she said, pushing her
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his motor-cars grow swifter, his exposures of Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt the precious distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can give it back to society again. Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle on a house before they left town to pay their annual visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, was stable, and this year she longed more than usual for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs that guard it on the north. But London thwarted her; in its atmosphere she could not concentrate. London only stimulates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a house she wanted, was paying for many a thrilling sensation in the past. She could not even break loose from culture, and her time was wasted by concerts which it would be a sin to miss, and invitations which it would never do to refuse. At last she grew desperate; she resolved that she would go nowhere and be at home to no one until she found a house, and broke the resolution in half an hour. Once she had humorously lamented that she had never been to Simpson s restaurant in the Strand. Now a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to lunch there. Mr Cahill was coming and the three would have such a jolly chat, and perhaps end up at the Hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie, and no desire to meet her fiance, and she was surprised that Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson s, had not been asked instead. But the invitation touched her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox better than she supposed, and declaring that she "simply must," she accepted. But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant, staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of athletic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement. Her voice was gruffer, her manner more downright, and she was inclined to patronise the more foolish virgin. Margaret was silly enough to be pained at this. Depressed at her isolation, she saw not only houses and furniture, but the vessel of life itself slipping past her, with people like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board. There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came to her at Simpson s in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, if erroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished she had never come out of her backwater, where nothing happened except art and literature, and where no one ever got married or succeeded in remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise. "Father might be of the party--yes, father was." With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished. "I thought I d get round if I could," said he. "Evie told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don t pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you don t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after your young clerks?" "No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him into the box. "I m hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps." "That s good. What ll you have?" "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson s. It s not a bit the thing to go for here." "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to drink. That s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?" "Afraid I don t." "Well, what s the point of being practical if you can t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them." "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!" "What s that, father?" "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can t." "Percy, do you know of anything?" "I can t say I do," said Mr. Cahill. "How like you! You re never any good." "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!" "Well, you aren t. Miss Schlegel, is he?" The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to Mr. Wilcox, "you shall come to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles s." "With pleasure." "No, you d hate it," she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more cider. "It s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura." "A what?" "Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor of an astral plane?" He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. "Just so. Luckily it was Helen s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the man went." "Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one s ever asked me about my--what d ye call it? Perhaps I ve not got one." "You re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one dares mention it." "Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and all that?" "Too difficult a question." "Why s that? Gruyere or Stilton?" "Gruyere, please." "Better have Stilton." "Stilton. Because, though I don t believe in auras, and think Theosophy s only a halfway-house--" "--Yet there may be something in it all the same," he concluded, with a frown. "Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can t explain. I don t believe in all these fads, and yet I don t like saying that I don t believe in them." He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn t give me your word that you DON T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?" "I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?" "I don t know." "Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." "Yes, I am," "No, you re not," burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. "How s your house?" "Much the same as when you honoured it last week." "I don t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." "Why of course ?" "Can t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We re nearly demented." "Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town.
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feeling of loneliness vanished. "I thought I d get round if I could," said he. "Evie told me of her little plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure a table first. Evie, don t pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you don t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after your young clerks?" "No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him into the box. "I m hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps." "That s good. What ll you have?" "Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu. "Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson s. It s not a bit the thing to go for here." "Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her curiously. "Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to drink. That s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don t you agree?" "Yes," said Margaret, who didn t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of the "No, I didn t; yes, you did" type--conversation which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of others.<|quote|>"It s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere s my motto."</|quote|>"Perhaps it does make life more human." "Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they remember you from year s end to year s end." "Have you been in the East?" "Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, help to keep one s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly cynical. How s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?" "No, I m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I ve already told you once. Do you know of any houses?" "Afraid I don t." "Well, what s the point of being practical if you can t find two distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of them." "Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!" "What s that, father?" "I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can t." "Percy, do you know of anything?" "I can t say I do," said Mr. Cahill. "How like you! You re never any good." "Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!" "Well, you aren t. Miss Schlegel, is he?" The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of their talk jarred oddly on the ear. "Right you are! I ll cable out to Uganda this evening," came from the table behind. "Their Emperor wants war; well, let him have it," was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at such incongruities. "Next time," she said to
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Howards End
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“You will,”
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Nick
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remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will
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“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the
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her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this
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left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
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and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed
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p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of
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own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom,
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in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body
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The Great Gatsby
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"What will we say?"
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Bill Gorton
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asked for a telegraph blank.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's
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up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the
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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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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. "This is mine," 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
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"Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?" "The worms." "Your worms. Put them in there." He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets. "You got everything now?" I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees. "Yes." We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn. We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter 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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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. "This is mine," 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
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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.<|quote|>"What will we say?"</|quote|>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. "This is mine," 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.
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The Sun Also Rises
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she answered, a smile in her voice.
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No speaker
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one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like:
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he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as
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that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer
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Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against
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As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then." "M. Riviere went to see you?" "Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while
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the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then." "M. Riviere went to see you?" "Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true." For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: "What do you mean by trusting to it to come true?" "Why--you know it will, don't you?" "Your
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side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming themselves on his lips ... The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenska's pale and surprised face close at hand, and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like. They reached each other, their hands met, and he drew her arm through his. "This way--I have the carriage," he said. After that it all happened as he had dreamed. He helped her into the brougham with her bags, and had afterward the vague recollection of having properly reassured her about her grandmother and given her a summary of the Beaufort situation (he was struck by the softness of her: "Poor Regina!"). Meanwhile the carriage had worked its way out of the coil about the station, and they were crawling down the slippery incline to the wharf, menaced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses, dishevelled express-wagons, and an empty hearse--ah, that hearse! She shut her eyes as it passed, and clutched at Archer's hand. "If only it doesn't mean--poor Granny!" "Oh, no, no--she's much better--she's all right, really. There--we've passed it!" he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a faint smile, and he said: "You didn't expect me today?" "Oh, no." "I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd made all my arrangements--I very nearly crossed you in the train." "Oh--" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape. "Do you know--I hardly remembered you?" "Hardly remembered me?" "I mean: how shall I explain? I--it's always so. EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALL OVER AGAIN." "Oh, yes: I know! I know!" "Does it--do I too: to you?" he insisted. She nodded, looking out of the window. "Ellen--Ellen--Ellen!" She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then." "M. Riviere went to see you?" "Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true." For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: "What do you mean by trusting to it to come true?" "Why--you know it will, don't you?" "Your vision of you and me together?" She burst into a sudden hard laugh. "You choose your place well to put it to me!" "Do you mean because we're in my wife's brougham? Shall we get out and walk, then? I don't suppose you mind a little snow?" She laughed again, more gently. "No; I shan't get out and walk, because my business is to get to Granny's as quickly as I can. And you'll sit beside me, and we'll look, not at visions, but at realities." "I don't know what you mean by realities. The only reality to me is this." She met the words with a long silence, during which the carriage rolled down an obscure side-street and then turned into the searching illumination of Fifth Avenue. "Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress--since I can't be your wife?" she asked. The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered. "I want--I want somehow to get away with you into a world where words like that--categories like that--won't exist. Where we shall be simply two human beings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter." She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh. "Oh, my dear--where is that country? Have you ever been there?" she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: "I know so many who've tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carlo--and it wasn't at all different from the old world they'd left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous." He had never heard her speak in such a tone, and he remembered the phrase she had used a little while before. "Yes, the Gorgon HAS dried your tears," he said. "Well, she opened my eyes too; it's a delusion to say that she blinds people.
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to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then." "M. Riviere went to see you?" "Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy,"<|quote|>she answered, a smile in her voice.</|quote|>"Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I
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The Age Of Innocence
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"Missed his tip."
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Josiah Bounderby
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the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four
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asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never
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Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!"
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(Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised
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friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get
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as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father's hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?" "Yes, I was." "Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker,
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and Sissy, having set two chairs for them, sped away with a quick light step. It was a mean, shabbily furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-cap, embellished with two peacock's feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signor Jupe had that very afternoon enlivened the varied performances with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no other portion of his wardrobe, or other token of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that respectable ancestor of the highly trained animal who went aboard the ark, might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any sign of a dog that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus's Arms. They heard the doors of rooms above, opening and shutting as Sissy went from one to another in quest of her father; and presently they heard voices expressing surprise. She came bounding down again in a great hurry, opened a battered and mangy old hair trunk, found it empty, and looked round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror. "Father must have gone down to the Booth, sir. I don't know why he should go there, but he must be there; I'll bring him in a minute!" She was gone directly, without her bonnet; with her long, dark, childish hair streaming behind her. "What does she mean!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Back in a minute? It's more than a mile off." Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young man appeared at the door, and introducing himself with the words, "By your leaves, gentlemen!" walked in with his hands in his pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses' provender, and sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father's hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?" "Yes, I was." "Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance. "His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up," said Childers. "He has his points as a Cackler still, but he can't get a living out of _them_." "A Cackler!" Bounderby repeated. "Here we go again!" "A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair which all shook at once. "Now, it's a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it." "Good!" interrupted Mr. Bounderby. "This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what, young man. I haven't always occupied my present station of life. I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from _me_." E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it. "Very well," said Bounderby. "I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There's no family pride about me, there's no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that's what he is, in English." "It's all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French," retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. "I am telling your friend what's the fact; if you don't like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least," remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. "Don't give it mouth in this building, till you're called upon. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?" "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing. "Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?" said Childers. "Because this isn't a strong building, and too
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his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses' provender, and sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father's shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father's hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. "By your leaves, gentlemen," said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. "It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!" "It was," said Mr. Gradgrind. "His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you." "You see, my friend," Mr. Bounderby put in, "we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don't know the value of time." "I have not," retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, "the honour of knowing _you_, but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right." "And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think," said Cupid. "Kidderminster, stow that!" said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortal name.) "What does he come here cheeking us for, then?" cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible temperament. "If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and take it out." "Kidderminster," said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, "stow that! Sir," to Mr. Gradgrind, "I was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately." "Has what has he missed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.<|quote|>"Missed his tip."</|quote|>"Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never done 'em once," said Master Kidderminster. "Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging." "Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling," Mr. Childers interpreted. "Oh!" said Mr. Gradgrind, "that is tip, is it?" "In a general way that's missing his tip," Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered. "Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!" ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. "Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself!" "Lower yourself, then," retorted Cupid. "Oh Lord! if you've raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit." "This is a very obtrusive lad!" said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. "We'd have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming," retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. "It's a pity you don't have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff, ain't you?" "What does this unmannerly boy mean," asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, "by Tight-Jeff?" "There! Get out, get out!" said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. "Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's only tight-rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?" "Yes, I was." "Then," continued Mr. Childers, quickly, "my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?" "I never saw the man in my life." "I doubt if you ever _will_ see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off." "Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?" "Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he can't stand it." "Why has he been so very much Goosed?" asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great
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Hard Times
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said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
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No speaker
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you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body
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consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I
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all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
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have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he
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dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago." He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on-- "That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her." Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for
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Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago." He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on-- "That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her." Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you." He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?" "No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married." Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife." Emma could not but rejoice to hear
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Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done. She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer. "She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--" "To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection." Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it! "She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation," was Emma's conclusion. "She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle." Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago." He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on-- "That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her." Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you." He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?" "No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married." Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife." Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "Well," said she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?" "Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours." "In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau." "Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--" "I do not accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be--And I love an open temper. No--till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no thought beyond." "Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what do you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?" "Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me." CHAPTER XVI Every body in and about Highbury who
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to be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle." Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. "We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to." "You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But" (with a reproachful smile at Emma) "she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, "Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting." "I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change." Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said, "Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness." "I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,"<|quote|>said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.</|quote|>"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her." "And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried on--" "And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other." Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, "Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago." He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on-- "That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall never ask her." Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim, "You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you." He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?" "No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married." Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife." Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "Well," said she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?" "Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours." "In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty
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Emma
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said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
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No speaker
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just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the
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me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
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back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A
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what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go
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muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft,
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all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to
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But he did not take his eyes off the robber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. "Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. "Get up!" said the man. "It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. "It is," was the reply. "Get up." There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. "Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. "There's enough light for wot I've got to do." "Bill," said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, "why do you look like that at me!" The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the
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upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear,"<|quote|>said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.</|quote|>"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made
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Oliver Twist
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D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up
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No speaker
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alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black
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which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten
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commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front
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dresses very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where
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while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?” Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now,
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Gardener ran in from the office. “Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. “You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be the devil to pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.” “Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring another. Come along, nobody’ll tell tales.” Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!” His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, we’ll make it all right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie.” Molly was Mrs. Gardener’s name, of course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a clerk in some other man’s hotel. At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread himself out over the piano, and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?” Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every
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called a fit. The doctor came and gave him opium. When Samson was well again, his young mistress led him back to the piano. Several teachers experimented with him. They found he had absolute pitch, and a remarkable memory. As a very young child he could repeat, after a fashion, any composition that was played for him. No matter how many wrong notes he struck, he never lost the intention of a passage, he brought the substance of it across by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his teachers out. He could never learn like other people, never acquired any finish. He was always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and wonderfully. As piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it was something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than his other physical senses,—that not only filled his dark mind, but worried his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to see a negro enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the agreeable sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were heaped up on those black and white keys, and he were gloating over them and trickling them through his yellow fingers. In the middle of a crashing waltz d’Arnault suddenly began to play softly, and, turning to one of the men who stood behind him, whispered, “Somebody dancing in there.” He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. “I hear little feet,—girls, I ’spect.” Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and peeped over the transom. Springing down, he wrenched open the doors and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny and Lena, Ántonia and Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the floor. They separated and fled toward the kitchen, giggling. Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. “What’s the matter with you girls? Dancing out here by yourselves, when there’s a roomful of lonesome men on the other side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny.” The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. “Mrs. Gardener would n’t like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if you was to come out here and dance with us.” “Mrs. Gardener’s in Omaha, girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re Tony and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?” O’Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie Gardener ran in from the office. “Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. “You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be the devil to pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.” “Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring another. Come along, nobody’ll tell tales.” Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!” His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, we’ll make it all right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie.” Molly was Mrs. Gardener’s name, of course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a clerk in some other man’s hotel. At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread himself out over the piano, and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?” Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who “worked out,” were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had borrowed money on their
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me to your friends, Tiny.” The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. “Mrs. Gardener would n’t like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if you was to come out here and dance with us.” “Mrs. Gardener’s in Omaha, girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re Tony and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?” O’Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie Gardener ran in from the office. “Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. “You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be the devil to pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.” “Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring another. Come along, nobody’ll tell tales.” Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!” His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, we’ll make it all right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie.” Molly was Mrs. Gardener’s name, of course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a clerk in some other man’s hotel. At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread himself out over the piano, and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?” Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!— “the light of youth.”<|quote|>D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. VIII THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot. That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones. Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up</|quote|>“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House whistle. At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a tent before? Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired girls.” IX THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family to go to school. Those girls
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My Antonia
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"She never takes cold,"
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Josiah Bounderby
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of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?"
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Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was
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Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of
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sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind
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sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer 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
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propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer 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.
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failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accustomed to splendour, "but it is my duty to remember," Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the domestics were present, "that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed," said she, "if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so." The same Hermitical state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer 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
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to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold."<|quote|>"She never takes cold,"</|quote|>said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer 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
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Hard Times
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“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”
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Jordan
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is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she
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she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began
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thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of
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come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon
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twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat
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to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. V When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar.
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downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ” She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow. But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas. I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel. The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. V When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. “Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said. “Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car.” “It’s too late.” “Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made use of it all summer.” “I’ve got to go to bed.” “All right.” He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness. “I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.” “Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” “What day would suit you?” “What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.” “How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the grass cut,” he said. We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass. “There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated. “Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked. “Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make much money, do you?” “Not very much.” This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently. “I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, aren’t you, old sport?” “Trying to.” “Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a
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in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!”<|quote|>“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,”</|quote|>went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. V When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. “Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said. “Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car.” “It’s too late.” “Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made use of it all summer.” “I’ve got to go to bed.” “All right.” He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness. “I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here
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The Great Gatsby
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Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.
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No speaker
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that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more.
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is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn
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face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's
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Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia.
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said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. "You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call
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they must have!" Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which contained "all her worldly goods," she followed him into the house. CHAPTER III. Marilla Cuthbert is Surprised |MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door. But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement. "Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?" "There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only _her_." He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her name. "No boy! But there _must_ have been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy." "Well, she didn't. She brought _her_. I asked the station-master. And I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in." "Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. "You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh," she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew, "why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and
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shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. "That's it, isn't it?" she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel's back delightedly. "Well now, you've guessed it! But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described it so's you could tell." "No, she didn't--really she didn't. All she said might just as well have been about most of those other places. I hadn't any real idea what it looked like. But just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up, for I've pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream. Then I'd pinch myself to see if it was real--until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was only a dream I'd better go on dreaming as long as I could; so I stopped pinching. But it _is_ real and we're nearly home." With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. Matthew stirred uneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who would have to tell this waif of the world that the home she longed for was not to be hers after all. They drove over Lynde's Hollow, where it was already quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see them from her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of Green Gables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking from the approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand. It was not of Marilla or himself he was thinking of the trouble this mistake was probably going to make for them, but of the child's disappointment. When he thought of that rapt light being quenched in her eyes he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to assist at murdering something--much the same feeling that came over him when he had to kill a lamb or calf or any other innocent little creature. The yard was quite dark as they turned into it and the poplar leaves were rustling silkily all round it. "Listen to the trees talking in their sleep," she whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. "What nice dreams they must have!" Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which contained "all her worldly goods," she followed him into the house. CHAPTER III. Marilla Cuthbert is Surprised |MARILLA came briskly forward as Matthew opened the door. But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement. "Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?" "There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only _her_." He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her name. "No boy! But there _must_ have been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy." "Well, she didn't. She brought _her_. I asked the station-master. And I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in." "Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. "You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh," she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew, "why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?" "No. We want a boy to help Matthew on the farm. A girl would be of no use to us. Take off your hat. I'll lay it and your bag on the hall table." Anne took off her hat meekly. Matthew came back presently and they sat down to supper. But Anne could not eat. In vain she nibbled at the bread and butter and pecked at the crab-apple preserve out of the little scalloped glass dish by her plate. She did not really make any headway at all. "You're not eating anything," said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. "I can't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?" "I've never been in the depths of despair, so I can't say," responded Marilla. "Weren't you? Well, did you ever try to _imagine_ you were in the depths of despair?" "No, I didn't." "Then I don't think you can understand what it's like. It's a very uncomfortable feeling indeed. When you try to eat a lump comes right up in your throat and you can't swallow anything, not even if it was a chocolate caramel. I had one chocolate caramel once two years ago and it was simply delicious. I've often dreamed since then that I had a lot of chocolate caramels, but I always wake up just when I'm going to eat them. I do hope you won't be offended because I can't eat. Everything is extremely nice, but still I cannot eat." "I guess she's tired," said Matthew, who hadn't spoken since his return from the barn. "Best put her to bed, Marilla." Marilla had been wondering where Anne
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But when her eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped short in amazement. "Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?" "There wasn't any boy," said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only _her_." He nodded at the child, remembering that he had never even asked her name. "No boy! But there _must_ have been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy." "Well, she didn't. She brought _her_. I asked the station-master. And I had to bring her home. She couldn't be left there, no matter where the mistake had come in." "Well, this is a pretty piece of business!" ejaculated Marilla. During this dialogue the child had remained silent, her eyes roving from one to the other, all the animation fading out of her face. Suddenly she seemed to grasp the full meaning of what had been said. Dropping her precious carpet-bag she sprang forward a step and clasped her hands. "You don't want me!" she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I might have expected it. Nobody ever did want me. I might have known it was all too beautiful to last. I might have known nobody really did want me. Oh, what shall I do? I'm going to burst into tears!" Burst into tears she did. Sitting down on a chair by the table, flinging her arms out upon it, and burying her face in them, she proceeded to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other deprecatingly across the stove. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla stepped lamely into the breach. "Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it." "Yes, there _is_ need!" The child raised her head quickly, revealing a tear-stained face and trembling lips. "_You_ would cry, too, if you were an orphan and had come to a place you thought was going to be home and found that they didn't want you because you weren't a boy. Oh, this is the most _tragical_ thing that ever happened to me!"<|quote|>Something like a reluctant smile, rather rusty from long disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim expression.</|quote|>"Well, don't cry any more. We're not going to turn you out-of-doors to-night. You'll have to stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?" The child hesitated for a moment. "Will you please call me Cordelia?" she said eagerly. "_Call_ you Cordelia? Is that your name?" "No-o-o, it's not exactly my name, but I would love to be called Cordelia. It's such a perfectly elegant name." "I don't know what on earth you mean. If Cordelia isn't your name, what is?" "Anne Shirley," reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name, "but, oh, please do call me Cordelia. It can't matter much to you what you call me if I'm only going to be here a little while, can it? And Anne is such an unromantic name." "Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne is a real good plain sensible name. You've no need to be ashamed of it." "Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained Anne, "only I like Cordelia better. I've always imagined that my name was Cordelia--at least, I always have of late years. When I was young I used to imagine it was Geraldine, but I like Cordelia better now. But if you call me Anne please call me Anne spelled with an E." "What difference does it make how it's spelled?" asked Marilla with another rusty smile as she picked up the teapot. "Oh, it makes _such_ a difference. It _looks_ so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia." "Very well, then, Anne spelled with an E, can you tell us how this mistake came to be made? We sent word to Mrs. Spencer to bring us a boy. Were there no boys at the asylum?" "Oh, yes, there was an abundance of them. But Mrs. Spencer said _distinctly_ that you wanted a girl about eleven years old. And the matron said she thought I would do. You don't know how delighted I was. I couldn't sleep all last night for joy. Oh," she added reproachfully, turning to Matthew, "why didn't you tell me at the station that you didn't want me and leave me there? If I hadn't seen the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters it wouldn't be so hard." "What on earth does she mean?" demanded Marilla, staring at Matthew. "She--she's just referring to some conversation we had on the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm going out to put the mare in, Marilla. Have tea ready when I come back." "Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody over besides you?" continued Marilla when Matthew had gone out. "She brought Lily Jones for herself. Lily is only five years old and she is very beautiful and had nut-brown hair. If I was very beautiful and had nut-brown hair would you keep me?"
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Anne Of Green Gables
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")
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No speaker
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hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no
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once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing
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and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;
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at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order,"
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Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again
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ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was." "I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us,
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more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was." "I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of course?" "Yes," said Alice, "I've often seen them at dinn--" she checked herself hastily. "I don't know where Dinn may be," said the Mock Turtle, "but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like." "I believe so," Alice replied thoughtfully. "They have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs." "You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle: "crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is--" here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--" "Tell her about the reason and all that," he said to the Gryphon. "The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get them out again. That's all." "Thank you," said Alice, "it's very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before." "I can tell you more than that, if you like," said the Gryphon. "Do you know why it's called a whiting?" "I never thought about it," said Alice. "Why?" "_It does the boots and shoes_," the Gryphon replied very solemnly. Alice was thoroughly puzzled. "Does the boots and shoes!" she repeated in a wondering tone. "Why, what
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"With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was." "I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never"<|quote|>")</|quote|>"--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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Hugh demurred.
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No speaker
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I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out
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I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in
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picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked
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to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign;
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doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.” “I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.” Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you _could_ be ready to ‘talk’!” This produced on the
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he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.” “I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.” Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you _could_ be ready to ‘talk’!” This produced on the part of the others present a mute exchange that could only have denoted surprise at all the irrepressible young outsider thus projected upon them took for granted. “I’ve an idea,” said Lord John to his friend, “that you’re quite ready to talk with _me_.” Hugh then, with his appetite so richly quickened, could but rejoice. “Lady Grace spoke to me of things in the library.” “You’ll find it _that_ way” --Lord Theign gave the indication. “Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away. Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a quick comment. “Very sharp, no doubt--but he wants taking down.” The master of Dedborough wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but the young expert did bring certain things home. “The people my daughters, in the exercise of a wild freedom, do pick up----!” “Well, don’t you see that all you’ve got to do--on the question we’re dealing with--is to claim your very own wild freedom? Surely I’m right in feeling you,” Lord John further remarked, “to have jumped at once to my idea that Bender is heaven-sent--and at what they call the psychologic moment, don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money
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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 combined with the very great rarity, more than--ah more than can be estimated off-hand.” It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.” “Yes--but not on the whole the same amount of either.” “No, not on the whole the same amount of either!” --Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?” “Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?” The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to _do_ with my property?” “Nothing at all here--it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano--one of the glories of the short list--in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up, “that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.” Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.” “I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.” Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you _could_ be ready to ‘talk’!” This produced on the part of the others present a mute exchange that could only have denoted surprise at all the irrepressible young outsider thus projected upon them took for granted. “I’ve an idea,” said Lord John to his friend, “that you’re quite ready to talk with _me_.” Hugh then, with his appetite so richly quickened, could but rejoice. “Lady Grace spoke to me of things in the library.” “You’ll find it _that_ way” --Lord Theign gave the indication. “Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away. Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a quick comment. “Very sharp, no doubt--but he wants taking down.” The master of Dedborough wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but the young expert did bring certain things home. “The people my daughters, in the exercise of a wild freedom, do pick up----!” “Well, don’t you see that all you’ve got to do--on the question we’re dealing with--is to claim your very own wild freedom? Surely I’m right in feeling you,” Lord John further remarked, “to have jumped at once to my idea that Bender is heaven-sent--and at what they call the psychologic moment, don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that--smaller or greater--you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?” Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!” “Why not?--when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.” “Oh, I’m not talking of ease to _him_,” Lord Theign returned-- “I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.” “Why not then--for so great a convenience--gallantly make it?” “Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua----!” But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that--God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection wouldn’t apply.” “You see how it applies--in the case of the Moret-to--for _him_. A mere Moretto,” said Lord Theign, “is too cheap--for a Yankee ‘on the spend.’” “Then the Mantovano wouldn’t be.” “It remains to be proved that it _is_ a Mantovano.” “Well,” said Lord John, “go into it.” “Hanged if I won’t!” his friend broke out after a moment. “It _would_ suit me. I mean” --the explanation came after a brief intensity of thought-- “the possible size of his cheque would.” “Oh,” said Lord John gaily, “I guess there’s no limit to the possible size of his cheque!” “Yes, it would suit me, it would suit me!” the elder man, standing there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her. Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off--in a huge procession.” “Thank goodness! And our friends?” “All playing tennis,” she said-- “save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?” Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him--making discoveries.” “Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!” “To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce. “Your Moretto of Brescia--do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.” “A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!” Her father was struck.
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subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.” Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?” “It isn’t another hand” --oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.” “How can you prove it’s the same?” “Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit--and evidence that of course has to be estimated.” “Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?” “Well,” --Hugh was all ready-- “will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture--he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.” Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?” “Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him--as a service.” “A service to _you?_ He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled. “Well, I’ve obliged _him!_” Hugh readily retorted. “The obligation will be to we” --Lord Theign spoke more formally. “Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me--as no one else really can--if the Verona man is _your_ man.” “But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?” “The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it--that’s the point.” “Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.” Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.” “Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested----” “We _may_” --Mr. Bender took it straight up-- “get news next week?” Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong----!” His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.” “Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed-- “like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak--and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.” “I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.”<|quote|>Hugh demurred.</|quote|>“Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!” “Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked _up_!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess--for it’s to _her_ I’ve lost my heart--does cry out for me again.” “You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.” “I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.” Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you _could_ be ready to ‘talk’!” This produced on the part of the others present a mute exchange that could only have denoted surprise at all the irrepressible young outsider thus projected upon them took for granted. “I’ve an idea,” said Lord John to his friend, “that you’re quite ready to talk with _me_.” Hugh then, with his appetite so richly quickened, could but rejoice. “Lady Grace spoke to me of things in the library.” “You’ll find it _that_ way” --Lord Theign gave the indication. “Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away. Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a quick comment. “Very sharp, no doubt--but he wants taking down.” The master of Dedborough wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but the young expert did bring certain things home. “The people my daughters, in the exercise of a wild freedom, do pick up----!” “Well, don’t you see that all you’ve got to do--on the question we’re dealing with--is to claim your very own wild freedom? Surely I’m right in feeling you,” Lord John further remarked, “to have jumped at once to my idea that Bender is heaven-sent--and at what they call the psychologic moment, don’t they?--to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that--smaller or greater--you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?” Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!” “Why not?--when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.” “Oh, I’m not talking of ease to _him_,” Lord Theign returned-- “I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.” “Why not then--for so great a convenience--gallantly make it?” “Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua----!” But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that--God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection
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The Outcry
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"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"
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Hercule Poirot
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Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
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gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that
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before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced
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you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not,
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"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped
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it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in
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Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later." "The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?" "Yes, sir." "And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther servants' side?" "It's this side, sir." "What time did you bring it up last night?" "About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir." "And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?" "When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished." "Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o'clock, the cocoa was standing on the table in the left wing?" "Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly: "And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it." "What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot. "Seeing it on the tray, sir." "You saw some salt on the tray?" "Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in." I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement.
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would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"<|quote|>"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?" Annie considered. "There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember." "Think," urged Poirot. Annie racked her brains in vain. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it." "It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she have that every night?" "Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night whenever she fancied it." "What was it? Plain cocoa?" "Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it." "Who took it to her room?" "I did, sir." "Always?" "Yes, sir." "At what time?" "When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir." "Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?" "No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.
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No speaker
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face is furious. "What regiment?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"Where are they?" But I
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give it. His fat red face is furious. "What regiment?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"Where are they?" But I have had more than enough
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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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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
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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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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
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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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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
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you never should realize it. Was it bad, you ask.--You, Mother,--I shake my head and say: "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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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
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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?" 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: "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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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 a third if I wish to. There are no bugles and no bombardments, the children of the house play in the skittle-alley, and the dog rests his head against my knee. The sky is blue, between the leaves of the chestnuts rises the green spire of St. Margaret's Church. This is good, I like it. But I cannot get on with the people. My mother is the only one who asks no questions. Not so my father. He wants me to tell him about the front; he is curious in a way that I find stupid and distressing; I no longer have any real contact with him. There is nothing he likes more than just hearing about it. I realize he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I would do it willingly, but it is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them. What would become of us if everything that happens out there were quite clear to us? So I confine myself to telling him a few amusing things. But he wants to know whether I have ever had a hand-to-hand fight. I say "No," and get up and go out. But that does not mend matters. After I have been startled a couple of times in the street by the screaming of the tramcars, which resembles the shriek of a shell coming straight for one, somebody taps me on the shoulder. It is my German-master, and he fastens on me with the usual question: "Well, how are things out there? Terrible, terrible, eh? Yes, it is dreadful, but we must carry on. And after all, you do at least get decent food out there, so I hear. You look well, Paul, and fit. Naturally it's worse here. Naturally. The best for our soldiers every time, that goes without saying." He drags me along to a table with a lot of others. They welcome me, a head-master shakes hands with me and says: "So you come from the front? What is the spirit like out there? Excellent, eh? excellent?" I explain that no one would be sorry to be back home. He laughs uproariously. "I can well believe it! But first you have to give the Froggies a good hiding. Do
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shake my head and say: "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?"<|quote|>I give him full particulars. Even yet he has not had enough.</|quote|>"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 a third if I wish to. There are no bugles and no bombardments, the children of the house play in the skittle-alley, and the dog rests his head against my knee. The sky is blue, between the leaves of the chestnuts rises the green spire of St. Margaret's Church. This is good, I like it. But I cannot get on with the people. My mother is the
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.
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No speaker
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see 'em?" "I hope not,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"Think it is them, Jem?"
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time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?" "I hope not,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"Think it is them, Jem?" "Who could it be?" "Might
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"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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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
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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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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
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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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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
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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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "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!"
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was renewed, to finish as before with a curious rustling and a splash. "What can that be, Jem?" whispered Don. "Not going to wenture an observation again," replied Jem, sourly. Then all was still save the murmurs of voices inboard, and Don stood pressed against the bulwark listening intently, and thinking that before they went below to their hammocks they must haul up the lines again and coil them down, or their appearance would betray that something had been going on. How long they had been waiting since the last sound was heard, Don could not tell; but all was so wonderfully still that the silence was oppressive; and after arriving at the conclusion that the canoe would not come, as from the utter absence of light or movement ashore it was evident that none of the natives were stirring, he turned to Jem. "Asleep?" he whispered. "I arn't a horse, am I?" was the surly reply. "Nice place to go to sleep standing up, Mas' Don.--Think he'll come?" "I in afraid not, now." "What shall us do?" Don was silent. "Say, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, after a thoughtful pause, "seems a pity to waste them ropes after--" "Hist!" Don's hand was on his lips, for voices were heard from aft, and directly after they heard the captain say,-- "Yes; extremely dark. Think we shall have a storm?" "No," said the first lieutenant, "the glass is too high. Very dark 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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "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
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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,"<|quote|>panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.</|quote|>"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
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Don Lavington
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"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"
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Mr. Bingley
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have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if
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hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit
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_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he,
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of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than
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is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home." "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that
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from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home." "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met
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her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_." "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?" "_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. CHAPTER IX. Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home." "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families." Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. "Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter." "Did Charlotte dine with you?" "No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend." "She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley. "Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were." "And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy
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immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease."<|quote|>"Whatever I do is done in a hurry,"</|quote|>replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth. "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her. "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly." "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful." "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours." "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home." "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study." "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at least that advantage." "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society." "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever." "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town." Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph. "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?" "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either." "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all." "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true." "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families." Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."
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Miss Bartlett
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won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one
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it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so
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is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a
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if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought
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they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his
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was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting." Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a
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don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling." Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle. "But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid." "Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see." "But I don't see--" They tried to stifle her with cake. "No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver." "I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?" "I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting." Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused
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No, give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from the beginning." "Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?" "No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--a sovereign's worth of silver." She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul. "No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now." Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed. "How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source." "Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?" Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth." Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?" "We must think of every possibility." "Oh, it's all right." "Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know." "I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it." "To contradict it?" "No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched. "Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different." "Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind, anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!" Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me." "Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don't." For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon. "Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?" "Yes, I have." "What happened?" "We met at the Rectory." "What line is he taking up?" "No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."<|quote|>"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."</|quote|>Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned from the station. "Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett. "What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with
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A Room With A View
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said Mrs. Norris.
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No speaker
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say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to
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"I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will
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would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a
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decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there
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than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about
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made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party." This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such
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tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction. "Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part." "But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria. Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia." "I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation. Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak." Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced." "We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation." "I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party." This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), _I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!" Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either. But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy. "Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," followed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting _her_. "I must really congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund. She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being
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to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think." "Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it. Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner. To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time." "I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it." "There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it." "What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!" "Oh! she might think the difference between us the difference in our situations that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything." "I was just going to say the very same thing,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Norris.</|quote|>"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow
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Mansfield Park
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He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.
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No speaker
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merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy,"
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the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?"
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them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was
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that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some
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scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly
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when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather
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sound of pursuit. Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE. "Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?" said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below. He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle
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the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.<|quote|>He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear.</|quote|>"It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about
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Don Lavington
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"He is, you know."
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Mike Campbell
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chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett
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some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him
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don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell
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just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett
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same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel,"
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on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll
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nose?" There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose. "An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me." Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. "An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags _fell_ on me. Let's go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece." "You _are_ a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?" "Chap bought it for me. Don't you like it?" "It's a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat." "Oh, we've so much money now," Brett said. "I say, haven't you met Bill yet? You _are_ a lovely host, Jake." She turned to Mike. "This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt." "Aren't I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in London. Chap who did me in." "What did he say?" "Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say, Brett, you _are_ a lovely piece. Don't you think she's beautiful?" "Beautiful. With this nose?" "It's a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn't she a lovely piece?" "Couldn't we have kept the man in Scotland?" "I say, Brett, let's turn in early." "Don't be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this bar." "Isn't she a lovely piece? Don't you think so, Jake?" "There's a fight to-night," Bill said. "Like to go?" "Fight," said Mike. "Who's fighting?" "Ledoux and somebody." "He's very good, Ledoux," Mike said. "I'd like to see it, rather" "--he was making an effort to pull himself together--" "but I can't go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett, do get a new hat." Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. "You two run along to the fight. I'll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home directly." "I'm not tight," Mike said. "Perhaps just a little. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece." "Go on to the fight," Brett said. "Mr. Campbell's getting difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?" "I say, you are a lovely piece." We said good night. "I'm sorry I can't go," Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?" "No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all." "He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel
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bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike.<|quote|>"He is, you know."</|quote|>"You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?" "No. I told him we were
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The Sun Also Rises
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he murmured.
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No speaker
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the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one
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the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in
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out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped
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life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we
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and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The
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portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited
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painter s lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray s own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises.
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There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray,"<|quote|>he murmured.</|quote|>"What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?" Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. "Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"On the contrary--"
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Aunt Juley
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plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate
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case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn
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the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I
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Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as
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began to shine. "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt hastily--" "English to the backbone." Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. "And that reminds me--Helen s letter." "Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen s letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down." "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must
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of buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London. Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do." "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." And her eyes began to shine. "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt hastily--" "English to the backbone." Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. "And that reminds me--Helen s letter." "Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen s letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down." "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless
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was a moment s hush, and then the flood-gates opened. "I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more than you do. We met--we only met the father and mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I didn t even know their son s name. It s all so--" She waved her hand and laughed a little. "In that case it is far too sudden." "Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?" "But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn t be unpractical now that we ve come to facts. It is too sudden, surely." "Who knows!" "But, Margaret, dear--" "I ll go for her other letters," said Margaret. "No, I won t, I ll finish my breakfast. In fact, I haven t them. We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got it into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral at Speyer--the Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven electors--you know-- Speyer, Maintz, and Koln. Those three sees once commanded the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street." "I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret." "The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, poor things, had been taken in--they were actually stopping at Speyer--and they rather liked Helen s insisting that they must fly with us to Heidelberg. As a matter of fact, they did come on next day. We all took some drives together. They knew us well enough to ask Helen to come and see them--at least, I was asked too, but Tibby s illness prevented me, so last Monday she went alone. That s all. You know as much as I do now. It s a young man out of the unknown. She was to have come back Saturday, but put off till Monday, perhaps on account of--I don t know." She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London. Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do." "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." And her eyes began to shine. "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt hastily--" "English to the backbone." Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. "And that reminds me--Helen s letter." "Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen s letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down." "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen s happiness you would offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions--not that one minds offending them." "I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen s writing that she and a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest isn t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no." Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with something that took the place of both qualities--something best described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered in her path through life. "If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless clerk--" "Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are dusting the banisters." "--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say." "I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to." Margaret was down on this. "But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off." "I think probably it must; but slowly." "Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What s an engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it s made of some hard stuff that may snap, but can t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They re different." "Exactly so. But won t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will be enough for me." Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her brother. He was not so well. The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to this effect would
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put off till Monday, perhaps on account of--I don t know." She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning. Their house was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain measure of peace. These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the precious soil of London. Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do." "Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." And her eyes began to shine. "Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt hastily--" "English to the backbone." Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. "And that reminds me--Helen s letter." "Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen s letter. I know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go down." "But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don t be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She says younger son. Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather--" "I gathered nothing." They began to talk at once. "Then in that case--" "In that case I can make no plans, don t you see."<|quote|>"On the contrary--"</|quote|>"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn t a baby." "Then in that case, my dear, why go down?" Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. "I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won t be offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of you." "Aunt Juley" "--she jumped up and kissed her--" "I must, must go to Howards End myself. You don t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for offering." "I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing;
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Howards End
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"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation,"
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example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more
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you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a
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it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue." "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?" "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free." "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have
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interval. My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents. "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue." "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?" "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free." "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden-legged man, a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man s name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?" "No: it is clear and concise." "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan
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led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it. On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the other side. "There s the print of wooden-leg s hand," he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours start." I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents. "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue." "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?" "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free." "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden-legged man, a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man s name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?" "No: it is clear and concise." "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man s window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card.
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"Confound the fellow! It s a most break-neck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow." There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it." The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto. "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don t prick yourself. I m delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?" "Certainly," I answered. "Your leg will stand it?" "Oh, yes." "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog s nose, while the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the _bouquet_ of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel s collar, and led him to the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed. The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some distance in the cold grey light. The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it. On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the other side. "There s the print of wooden-leg s hand," he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours start." I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents. "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue." "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?" "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free." "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden-legged man, a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man s name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?" "No: it is clear and concise." "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man s window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?" "Very clearly." "Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot into creasote, whence comes Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis." "But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the crime." "Quite so. And rather to Jonathan s disgust, to judge by the way he stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter. There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don t know that there is anything else." "The associate?" "Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all about it soon enough.
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him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours start." I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents. "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue." "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"<|quote|>"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates, the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers or one of them gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get away."</|quote|>"But that is mere speculation," said I. "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?" "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free." "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden-legged man, a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man s name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?" "No: it is clear and concise." "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the guards, makes his way to the dying man s window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a momento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?" "Very clearly." "Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts made to find the
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The Sign Of The Four
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"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"
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The Genial Passenger
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said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of
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the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am,"
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things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name
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bulky, tapestry-covered chesterfields or on swivel chairs irremovably fastened before the writing tables. Here too the steward for an hour every day presided over the cupboardful of novels which constituted the ship's library. "It's not much of a boat," said the genial passenger, sitting himself beside Tony. "But I expect things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name and labelled _NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE_--crates containing such new and unfamiliar possessions as a medicine chest, an automatic shot-gun, camping equipment, pack saddles, a cinema camera, dynamite, disinfectants, a collapsible canoe, filters, tinned butter and, strangest of all, an assortment of what Dr Messinger called "trade goods" "--failed to
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his black hands looked immense on the wet, whitish cloth. "I'm afraid our table is not showing up very well to-night," he said. "I see you are not a sufferer. My wife is in her cabin. _She_ is a sufferer." He was returning from a Congress, he told Tony. At the top of the stairs was a lounge named the Music and Writing Room. The light here was always subdued, in the day by the stained glass of the windows, at night by pink silk shades which hid the electric candles. Here the passengers assembled for their coffee, sitting on bulky, tapestry-covered chesterfields or on swivel chairs irremovably fastened before the writing tables. Here too the steward for an hour every day presided over the cupboardful of novels which constituted the ship's library. "It's not much of a boat," said the genial passenger, sitting himself beside Tony. "But I expect things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name and labelled _NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE_--crates containing such new and unfamiliar possessions as a medicine chest, an automatic shot-gun, camping equipment, pack saddles, a cinema camera, dynamite, disinfectants, a collapsible canoe, filters, tinned butter and, strangest of all, an assortment of what Dr Messinger called "trade goods" "--failed to convince him fully of the serious nature of his expedition. Dr Messinger had arranged everything. It was he who chose the musical boxes and mechanical mice, the mirrors, combs, perfumery, pills, fish hooks, axe heads, coloured rockets and rolls of artificial silk, which were packed in the box of "trade goods". And Dr Messinger himself was a new acquaintance who, prostrate now in his bunk with what the Negro clergyman would have called "suffering", that day, for the first time since Tony had met him, seemed entirely human. Tony had spent very little of his life abroad. At the age
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whined intermittently. A lascar took down from a line some washing which had been flapping there all day. The wash of the ship was quickly lost in the high waves. They were steaming westward down the Channel. As it grew to be night, lighthouses appeared flashing from the French coast. Presently a steward walked round the bright, upper deck striking chimes on a gong of brass cylinders, and the genial passenger went below to prepare himself for dinner in hot sea water which splashed from side to side of the bath and dissolved the soap in a thin, sticky scum. He was the only man to dress that evening: Tony sat in the mustering darkness until the second bell. Then he left his greatcoat in the cabin and went down to dinner. It was the first evening at sea. Tony sat at the captain's table, but the captain was on the bridge. There were empty chairs on either side of him. It was not rough enough for the fiddles to be out, but the stewards had removed the flower vases and damped the tablecloth to make it adhesive. A coloured archdeacon sat facing him. He ate with great refinement but his black hands looked immense on the wet, whitish cloth. "I'm afraid our table is not showing up very well to-night," he said. "I see you are not a sufferer. My wife is in her cabin. _She_ is a sufferer." He was returning from a Congress, he told Tony. At the top of the stairs was a lounge named the Music and Writing Room. The light here was always subdued, in the day by the stained glass of the windows, at night by pink silk shades which hid the electric candles. Here the passengers assembled for their coffee, sitting on bulky, tapestry-covered chesterfields or on swivel chairs irremovably fastened before the writing tables. Here too the steward for an hour every day presided over the cupboardful of novels which constituted the ship's library. "It's not much of a boat," said the genial passenger, sitting himself beside Tony. "But I expect things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name and labelled _NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE_--crates containing such new and unfamiliar possessions as a medicine chest, an automatic shot-gun, camping equipment, pack saddles, a cinema camera, dynamite, disinfectants, a collapsible canoe, filters, tinned butter and, strangest of all, an assortment of what Dr Messinger called "trade goods" "--failed to convince him fully of the serious nature of his expedition. Dr Messinger had arranged everything. It was he who chose the musical boxes and mechanical mice, the mirrors, combs, perfumery, pills, fish hooks, axe heads, coloured rockets and rolls of artificial silk, which were packed in the box of "trade goods". And Dr Messinger himself was a new acquaintance who, prostrate now in his bunk with what the Negro clergyman would have called "suffering", that day, for the first time since Tony had met him, seemed entirely human. Tony had spent very little of his life abroad. At the age of eighteen, before going to the University, he had been boarded for the summer with an elderly gentleman near Tours, with the intention that he should learn the language. (...a grey stone house surrounded by vines. There was a stuffed spaniel in the bathroom. The old man had called it "Stop" because it was chic at that time to give dogs an English name. Tony had bicycled along straight, white roads to visit the chateaux; he carried rolls of bread and cold veal tied to the back of the machine, and the soft dust seeped into them through the paper and gritted against his teeth. There were two other English boys there, so he had learned little French. One of them fell in love and the other got drunk for the first time on sparkling Vouvray at a fair that had been held in the town. That evening Tony won a live pigeon at a tombola; he set it free and later saw it being recaptured by the proprietor of the stall with a butterfly net...) Later he had gone to Central Europe for a few weeks with a friend from Balliol. (They had found themselves suddenly rich with the
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said Souki. "It's so like Brenda to trust everyone," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. * * * * * "I do think Tony comes out of this pretty poorly," said Marjorie. "Oh, I don't know," said Allan. "I expect your ass of a brother put the thing wrong." CHAPTER V IN SEARCH OF A CITY [I] "any idea how many times round the deck make a mile?" "None, I'm afraid," said Tony. "But I should think you must have walked a great distance." "Twenty-two times. One soon gets out of sorts at sea if you're used to an active life. She's not much of a boat. Travel with this line often?" "Never before." "Ah. Thought you might have been in business in the islands. Not many tourists going out this time of year. Just the other way about. All coming home, if you see what I mean. Going far?" "Demerara." "Ah. Looking for minerals perhaps?" "No, to tell you the truth I am looking for a city." The genial passenger was surprised and then laughed. "Sounded just like you said you were looking for a city." "Yes." "That _was_ what you said?" "Yes." "I thought it sounded like that... well, so long. I must do another few rounds before dinner." He paced off up the deck, straddling slightly in order to keep his balance and occasionally putting out a hand to the rail for support. Regularly every three minutes for the last hour or so, this man had come by. At first Tony had looked up at his approach and then turned away again, out to sea. Presently the man had taken to nodding, then to saying "Hullo" or "Bit choppy" or "Here we are again" "; finally he had stopped and began a conversation. Tony went aft to break this rather embarrassing sequence. He descended the companion way which led to the lower deck. Here, in crates lashed to the side, was a variety of livestock--some stud bulls, a heavily blanketed racehorse, a couple of beagles, being exported to various West Indian islands. Tony threaded a way between them and the hatches to the stern, where he sat against a winch watching the horizon mount above the funnels, then fall until they stood out black against the darkening sky. The pitch was more sensible here than it had been amidships; the animals shifted restlessly in their cramped quarters; the beagles whined intermittently. A lascar took down from a line some washing which had been flapping there all day. The wash of the ship was quickly lost in the high waves. They were steaming westward down the Channel. As it grew to be night, lighthouses appeared flashing from the French coast. Presently a steward walked round the bright, upper deck striking chimes on a gong of brass cylinders, and the genial passenger went below to prepare himself for dinner in hot sea water which splashed from side to side of the bath and dissolved the soap in a thin, sticky scum. He was the only man to dress that evening: Tony sat in the mustering darkness until the second bell. Then he left his greatcoat in the cabin and went down to dinner. It was the first evening at sea. Tony sat at the captain's table, but the captain was on the bridge. There were empty chairs on either side of him. It was not rough enough for the fiddles to be out, but the stewards had removed the flower vases and damped the tablecloth to make it adhesive. A coloured archdeacon sat facing him. He ate with great refinement but his black hands looked immense on the wet, whitish cloth. "I'm afraid our table is not showing up very well to-night," he said. "I see you are not a sufferer. My wife is in her cabin. _She_ is a sufferer." He was returning from a Congress, he told Tony. At the top of the stairs was a lounge named the Music and Writing Room. The light here was always subdued, in the day by the stained glass of the windows, at night by pink silk shades which hid the electric candles. Here the passengers assembled for their coffee, sitting on bulky, tapestry-covered chesterfields or on swivel chairs irremovably fastened before the writing tables. Here too the steward for an hour every day presided over the cupboardful of novels which constituted the ship's library. "It's not much of a boat," said the genial passenger, sitting himself beside Tony. "But I expect things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name and labelled _NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE_--crates containing such new and unfamiliar possessions as a medicine chest, an automatic shot-gun, camping equipment, pack saddles, a cinema camera, dynamite, disinfectants, a collapsible canoe, filters, tinned butter and, strangest of all, an assortment of what Dr Messinger called "trade goods" "--failed to convince him fully of the serious nature of his expedition. Dr Messinger had arranged everything. It was he who chose the musical boxes and mechanical mice, the mirrors, combs, perfumery, pills, fish hooks, axe heads, coloured rockets and rolls of artificial silk, which were packed in the box of "trade goods". And Dr Messinger himself was a new acquaintance who, prostrate now in his bunk with what the Negro clergyman would have called "suffering", that day, for the first time since Tony had met him, seemed entirely human. Tony had spent very little of his life abroad. At the age of eighteen, before going to the University, he had been boarded for the summer with an elderly gentleman near Tours, with the intention that he should learn the language. (...a grey stone house surrounded by vines. There was a stuffed spaniel in the bathroom. The old man had called it "Stop" because it was chic at that time to give dogs an English name. Tony had bicycled along straight, white roads to visit the chateaux; he carried rolls of bread and cold veal tied to the back of the machine, and the soft dust seeped into them through the paper and gritted against his teeth. There were two other English boys there, so he had learned little French. One of them fell in love and the other got drunk for the first time on sparkling Vouvray at a fair that had been held in the town. That evening Tony won a live pigeon at a tombola; he set it free and later saw it being recaptured by the proprietor of the stall with a butterfly net...) Later he had gone to Central Europe for a few weeks with a friend from Balliol. (They had found themselves suddenly rich with the falling mark and had lived in unaccustomed grandeur in the largest hotel suites. Tony had bought a fur for a few shillings and given it to a girl in Munich who spoke no English.) Later still his honeymoon with Brenda in a villa, lent to them, on the Italian Riviera. (...Cypress and olive trees, a domed church half-way down the hill, between the villa and the harbour, a caf? where they sat out in the evening, watching the fishing-boats and the lights reflected in the quiet water, waiting for the sudden agitation of sound and motion as the speed-boat came in. It had been owned by a dashing young official, who called it _Jazz Girl_. He seemed to spend twenty hours a day running in and out of the little harbour...) Once Brenda and he had gone to Le Touquet with Bratt's golf team. That was all. After his father died he had not left England. They could not easily afford it; it was one of the things they postponed until death duties were paid off; besides that, he was never happy away from Hetton, and Brenda did not like leaving John Andrew. Thus Tony had no very ambitious ideas about travel, and when he decided to go abroad his first act was to call at a tourist agency and come away laden with a sheaf of brightly coloured prospectuses, which advertised commodious cruises among palm trees, Negresses and ruined arches. He was going away because it seemed to be the conduct expected of a husband in his circumstances, because the associations of Hetton were for the time poisoned for him, because he wanted to live for a few months away from people who would know him or Brenda, in places where there was no expectation of meeting her or Beaver or Reggie St Cloud at every corner he frequented, and, with this feeling of evasion dominant in his mind, he took the prospectuses to read at the Greville Club. He had been a member there for some years, but rarely used it; his resignation was postponed only by his recurrent omission to cancel the banker's order for his subscription. Now that Bratt's and Brown's were distasteful to him he felt thankful that he had kept on with the Greville. It was a club of intellectual flavour, composed of dons, a few writers and the officials of museums and learned
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Tony sat in the mustering darkness until the second bell. Then he left his greatcoat in the cabin and went down to dinner. It was the first evening at sea. Tony sat at the captain's table, but the captain was on the bridge. There were empty chairs on either side of him. It was not rough enough for the fiddles to be out, but the stewards had removed the flower vases and damped the tablecloth to make it adhesive. A coloured archdeacon sat facing him. He ate with great refinement but his black hands looked immense on the wet, whitish cloth. "I'm afraid our table is not showing up very well to-night," he said. "I see you are not a sufferer. My wife is in her cabin. _She_ is a sufferer." He was returning from a Congress, he told Tony. At the top of the stairs was a lounge named the Music and Writing Room. The light here was always subdued, in the day by the stained glass of the windows, at night by pink silk shades which hid the electric candles. Here the passengers assembled for their coffee, sitting on bulky, tapestry-covered chesterfields or on swivel chairs irremovably fastened before the writing tables. Here too the steward for an hour every day presided over the cupboardful of novels which constituted the ship's library. "It's not much of a boat," said the genial passenger, sitting himself beside Tony. "But I expect things will look brighter when we get into the sun." Tony lit a cigar and was told by a steward that he must not smoke in this room. "That's all right," said the genial passenger, "we're just going down to the bar. You know," he said a few minutes later,<|quote|>"I feel I owe you an apology. I thought you were potty just now before dinner. Honestly I did, when you said you were going to Demerara to look for a city. Well, it sounded pretty potty. Then the purser--I'm at his table. Always get the cheeriest crowd at the purser's table _and_ the best attention--the purser told me about you. You're the explorer, aren't you?"</|quote|>"Yes, come to think of it, I suppose I am," said Tony. It did not come easily to him to realize that he was an explorer. It was barely a fortnight ago that he had become one. Even the presence in the hold of two vast crates, bearing his name and labelled _NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE_--crates containing such new and unfamiliar possessions as a medicine chest, an automatic shot-gun, camping equipment, pack saddles, a cinema camera, dynamite, disinfectants, a collapsible canoe, filters, tinned butter and, strangest of all, an assortment of what Dr Messinger called "trade goods" "--failed to convince him fully of the serious nature of his expedition. Dr Messinger had arranged everything. It was he who chose the musical boxes and mechanical mice, the mirrors, combs, perfumery, pills, fish hooks, axe heads, coloured rockets and rolls of artificial silk, which were packed in the box of "trade goods". And Dr Messinger himself was a new acquaintance who, prostrate now in his bunk with what the Negro clergyman would have called "suffering", that day, for the first time since Tony had met him, seemed entirely human. Tony had spent very little of his life abroad. At the age of eighteen, before going to the University, he had been boarded for the summer with an elderly gentleman near Tours, with the intention that he should learn the language. (...a grey stone house surrounded by vines. There was a stuffed spaniel in the bathroom. The old man had called it "Stop" because it was chic at that time to give dogs an English
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A Handful Of Dust
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"It is very, very horrible, Jem."
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Don Lavington
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give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as
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of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was
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the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was
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only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose
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had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the
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which hung over Don's spirit seemed to grow darker. His head throbbed violently, and a dull numbing pain was in his wrists and ankles. Then, too, as he opened his lips, he felt a cruel, parching, feverish thirst, which seemed by degrees to pass away as he listened to the low moaning, and then for a few minutes he lost consciousness. But it was only to start into wakefulness again, and stare wildly at the faintly-seen fence of the great _pah_, right over his head, and through which he could see the twinkling of a star. As he realised where he was once more, he whispered Jem's name again and again, but a heavy breathing was the only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish
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wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again. "Where are the enemy, Jem?" "Enemy, indeed!" growled Jem. "Savages like them don't deserve such a fine name. Brutes!" "But where are they? Did you see what they did?" "See? Yes. Don't ask me." "But where are they?" "Sleep. Drunk, I think. After they'd tied us prisoners all up and shut up all the women and children in the big _whare_, what do you think they did?" "Kill them?" "Killed 'em? No. Lit fires, and set to and had a reg'lar feast, and danced about--them as could!" added Jem with a chuckle. "Some on 'em had got too many holes in 'em to enjoy dancing much. But, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem." "Don't ask me to tell you no more, my lad. I'm too badly, just now. Think you could go to sleep?" "I don't know, Jem. I don't think so." "I'd say, let's try and get ourselves loose, and set to and get away, for I don't think anybody's watching us; but I couldn't go two steps, I know. Could you run away by yourself?" "I don't know," said Don. "I'm not going to try." "Well, but that's stupid, Mas' Don, when you might go somewhere, p'r'aps, and get help." "Where, Jem?" "Ah!" said the poor fellow, after a pause, "I never thought about that." They lay still under the blinking stars, with the wind blowing chill from the icy mountains; and the feeling of bitter despondency which hung over Don's spirit seemed to grow darker. His head throbbed violently, and a dull numbing pain was in his wrists and ankles. Then, too, as he opened his lips, he felt a cruel, parching, feverish thirst, which seemed by degrees to pass away as he listened to the low moaning, and then for a few minutes he lost consciousness. But it was only to start into wakefulness again, and stare wildly at the faintly-seen fence of the great _pah_, right over his head, and through which he could see the twinkling of a star. As he realised where he was once more, he whispered Jem's name again and again, but a heavy breathing was the only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was formed, right upon the black volcanic sand, over which the sea ran foaming like so much glistening silver. There were about fifty of the enemy busy there running to and fro, and the spectators were not long left in doubt as to what they were doing, for amid a great deal of shouting one of the huge war canoes was run down over the sand and launched, a couple of men being left to keep her by the shore, while their comrades busied themselves in launching others, till every canoe belonging to the conquered tribe was in the water. "That's it, is it?" said Jem. "They came over land, and now they're going back by water. Well, I s'pose, they'll do as they like." "Isn't this nearest one Ngati's canoe, Jem?" "Yes, my lad; that's she. I know her by that handsome face cut in the front. I s'pose poor Ngati's dead." "I'm afraid so," said Don, sadly. "I've been trying to make out his face and Tomati's among the prisoners, but I can't see either." "More can't I, Mas' Don. It's a werry bad job. Lookye yonder now." Don was already looking, for a great deal of excited business was going on below, where the victorious tribe was at work, going and coming, and bringing down loads of plunder taken from the various huts. One man bore a bundle of spears, another some stone tomahawks, which were rattled into the bottom of the canoes. Then paddles, and bundles of hempen garments were carried down, with other objects of value in the savage eye. This went on for hours amidst a great deal of shouting and laughter, till a large amount of spoil was loaded into the canoes, one being filled up and deep in the water. Then there seemed to be a pause, the canoes being
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Mas' Don, when you might go somewhere, p'r'aps, and get help." "Where, Jem?" "Ah!" said the poor fellow, after a pause, "I never thought about that." They lay still under the blinking stars, with the wind blowing chill from the icy mountains; and the feeling of bitter despondency which hung over Don's spirit seemed to grow darker. His head throbbed violently, and a dull numbing pain was in his wrists and ankles. Then, too, as he opened his lips, he felt a cruel, parching, feverish thirst, which seemed by degrees to pass away as he listened to the low moaning, and then for a few minutes he lost consciousness. But it was only to start into wakefulness again, and stare wildly at the faintly-seen fence of the great _pah_, right over his head, and through which he could see the twinkling of a star. As he realised where he was once more, he whispered Jem's name again and again, but a heavy breathing was the only response, and he lay thinking of home and of his bedroom all those thousand miles away. And as he thought of Bristol, a curious feeling of thankfulness came over him that his mother was in ignorance of the fate that had befallen her son. "What would she say--what would she think, if she knew that I was lying here on the ground, a prisoner, and wounded--here at the mercy of a set of savages--what would she say?" A short time before Don had been thinking that fate had done its worst for him, and that his position could not possibly have been more grave. But he thought now that it might have been far worse, for his mother was spared his horror. And then as he lay helpless there, and in pain, with his companion badly hurt, and the low moan of some wounded savage now and then making him shudder, the scene of the desperate fight seemed to come back, and he felt feverish and wild. But after a time that passed off, and the pain and chill troubled him, but only to pass off as well, and be succeeded by a drowsy sensation. And then as he lay there, the words of the old, old prayers he had repeated at his mother's knee rose to his lips, and he was repeating them as sleep fell upon his weary eyes; and the agony and horrors of that terrible time were as nothing to him then. The Adventures of Don Lavington--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER FORTY ONE. PRISONERS OF WAR. "I wish our old ship was here, and I was at one of the guns to help give these beggars a broadside."<|quote|>"It is very, very horrible, Jem."</|quote|>"Ten times as horrid as that, Mas' Don. Here was we all as quiet and comf'table as could be--taking our warm baths. I say, shouldn't I like one now! I'm that stiff and sore I can hardly move." "Yes, it would be a comfort, Jem." "Yes, and as I was saying, here was we going on as quiet as could be, and interfering with nobody, when these warmints came; and look at things now." "Yes," said Don, sadly, as he looked round; "half the men dead, the others wounded and prisoners, with the women and children." "And the village--I s'pose they calls this a village; I don't, for there arn't no church--all racked and ruined." They sat together, with their hands tightly bound behind them, gazing at the desolation. The prisoners were all huddled together, perfectly silent, and with a dull, sullen, despairing look in their countenances, which seemed to suggest that they were accepting their fate as a matter of course. It was a horrible scene, so many of the warriors being badly wounded, but they made no complaint; and, truth to tell, most of those who were now helpless prisoners had taken part in raids to inflict the pain they now suffered themselves. The dead had been dragged away before Don woke that morning, but there were hideous traces on the trampled ground, with broken weapons scattered here and there, while the wounded were lying together perfectly untended, many of them bound, to prevent escape--hardly possible even to an uninjured man, for a guard was keeping watch over them ready to advance threateningly, spear in hand, if a prisoner attempted to move. Where Don and Jem were sitting a portion of the great fence was broken, and they could see through it down to the shore. "What a shame it seems on such a glorious morning, Jem!" "Shame! Mas' Don? I should just like to shame 'em. Head hurt much?" "Not so very much, Jem. How is your shoulder?" "Rather pickly." "Rather what?" "Pickly, as if there was vinegar and pepper and salt being rubbed into it. But my old mother used to say that it was a good sign when a cut smarted a lot. So I s'pose my wound's first rate, for it smarts like a furze bush in a fit." "I wish I could bathe it for you, Jem." "Thank ye, Mas' Don. I wish my Sally could do it. More in her way." "We must try and bear it all, I suppose, Jem. How hot the sun is; and, ill as I am, I should be so glad of something to eat and drink." "I'm that hungry, Mas' Don," growled Jem, "that I could eat one o' these here savages. Not all at once, of course." "Look, Jem. What are they doing there?" Don nodded his head in the direction of the broken fence; and together they looked down from the eminence on which the _pah_ was
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Don Lavington
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"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."
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Cecil
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said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this
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shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and
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Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no
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Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe.
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I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's
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was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?"
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for the things that she will not tell us. The things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo's could have anything so vulgar as a "story." She did develop most wonderfully day by day. So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock; at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken. So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account. Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs. Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee. Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He did not want to read that letter--his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--" "He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he
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boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?" The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible. "Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence. Cecil greeted him rather critically. "I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?" "I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it." "Pfui!" "I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it." For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired. "I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?" "News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?" Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward. "I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!" "Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder. "Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you." "I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man languidly.<|quote|>"I can't even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don't feel to exist on sufferance."</|quote|>Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject. "Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?" "I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my decadence. My attitude--quite an indefensible one--is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin." "You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure." His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also. "I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--for example, Freddy Honeychurch." "Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?" "Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is." Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. "Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on extracting tea before evening service." "I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall
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A Room With A View
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"You had better not speak much, Jem,"
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Don Lavington
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it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my
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made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what
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feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected
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they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I
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to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he
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It was so here. They were about half-way across the river, whose white foam gave them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power of the fall. Both Don and Jem stood firm, though having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom
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straight for the river. It was their only chance of escape, unless they made for the sea, and chanced finding a small canoe on the sands. But that was evidently not Ngati's intention. Over the river seemed to be the only way not likely to be watched; and, going straight for it, he only paused again close to its brink, listening to the shouting going on but a very short distance from where they stood. While Don listened, it sounded to him as if the Maoris were literally hunting them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from where they were, capture was absolutely certain. As they stood panting there, Ngati caught Don's hand, and tightened it round the spear, following this up by the same action with Jem. "He means we are to hold tight, Jem." "Is he going to take us across this tumbling river, Mas' Don?" "It seems so." "Then I shall hold tight." Before them they could faintly make out the foaming water, and though the distance was not above twenty or thirty yards, the water ran roaring over great stones in so fierce a torrent, that Don felt his heart sink, and shrank from the venture. But on the other side of the torrent was freedom from a death so horrible that the boy shuddered at the thought, and without hesitation he tightened his hold on the spear, and followed the great Maori as he stepped boldly into the rushing stream. It was a new sensation to Don as he moved on with the water over his waist, and pressing so hard against him, that but for the support of the spear-shaft, he must have been swept away. Sturdy even as Jem was, he, too, had a terribly hard task to keep his footing; for his short, broad figure offered a great deal of surface to the swift current, while the rugged stony bed of the river varied in depth at every step. They had a tower of strength, though, in Ngati, who, in spite of the wounds he had received, seemed as vigorous as ever; and though Don twice lost his footing, he clung tightly to the spear, and soon fought his way back to a perpendicular position. But even towers of strength are sometimes undermined and give way. It was so here. They were about half-way across the river, whose white foam gave them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power of the fall. Both Don and Jem stood firm, though having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor
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them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power of the fall. Both Don and Jem stood firm, though having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken."<|quote|>"You had better not speak much, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don." "Yes." "But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati;
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Don Lavington
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Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,
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No speaker
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things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my
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I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned
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cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of
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matter to me who you marry? Don't trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: "Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend." He returned to the house excited and
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Quested! What an extraordinary notion!" From his smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. "Miss Quested is our best friend, she introduced us, but . . . what an amazing notion. Aziz, we must thrash this misunderstanding out later on. It is clearly some devilry of Mahmoud Ali's. He knows perfectly well I married Miss Moore. He called her Heaslop's sister' in his insolent letter to me." The name woke furies in him. "So she is, and here is Heaslop's brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good-bye." Shame turned into a rage that brought back his self-respect. "What does it matter to me who you marry? Don't trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: "Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend." He returned to the house excited and happy. It had been an uneasy, uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore's name was mentioned, stirring memories. "Esmiss Esmoor . . ." as though she was coming to help him. She had always been so good, and that youth whom he had scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella and Ralph, whom he had promised to be kind to, and Stella had married Cyril. CHAPTER XXXVI All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to make men feel that the revelation had not yet
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reception both at Mudkul and Deora, they were kindness itself at Deora, the Maharajah and Maharani wanted us to see everything." "You should never have left them." "Jump in, Ralph" they had reached the carriage. "Jump in, Mr. Quested, and Mr. Fielding." "Who on earth is Mr. Quested?" "Do I mispronounce that well known name? Is he not your wife's brother?" "Who on earth do you suppose I've married?" "I'm only Ralph Moore," said the boy, blushing, and at that moment there fell another pailful of the rain, and made a mist round their feet. Aziz tried to withdraw, but it was too late. "Quested? Quested? Don't you know that my wife was Mrs. Moore's daughter?" He trembled, and went purplish grey; he hated the news, hated hearing the name Moore. "Perhaps this explains your odd attitude?" "And pray what is wrong with my attitude?" "The preposterous letter you allowed Mahmoud Ali to write for you." "This is a very useless conversation, I consider." "However did you make such a mistake?" said Fielding, more friendly than before, but scathing and scornful. "It's almost unbelievable. I should think I wrote you half a dozen times, mentioning my wife by name. Miss Quested! What an extraordinary notion!" From his smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. "Miss Quested is our best friend, she introduced us, but . . . what an amazing notion. Aziz, we must thrash this misunderstanding out later on. It is clearly some devilry of Mahmoud Ali's. He knows perfectly well I married Miss Moore. He called her Heaslop's sister' in his insolent letter to me." The name woke furies in him. "So she is, and here is Heaslop's brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good-bye." Shame turned into a rage that brought back his self-respect. "What does it matter to me who you marry? Don't trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: "Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend." He returned to the house excited and happy. It had been an uneasy, uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore's name was mentioned, stirring memories. "Esmiss Esmoor . . ." as though she was coming to help him. She had always been so good, and that youth whom he had scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella and Ralph, whom he had promised to be kind to, and Stella had married Cyril. CHAPTER XXXVI All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed despite fulfilment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had been born, His procession loosely supposed by many to be the birth had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours of this day were signalized by performances of great beauty in the private apartments of the Rajah. He owned a consecrated troupe of men and boys, whose duty it was to dance various actions and meditations of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could witness the Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, the mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu who (with comic results) invoked the God before dining. All culminated in the dance of the milkmaidens before Krishna, and in the still greater dance of Krishna before the milkmaidens, when the music and the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors into their tinsel crowns, and all became one. The Rajah and his guests would then forget that this was a dramatic performance, and would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort could occur to-day, because death interrupts. It interrupted
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a couple of stings don't signify." "Not the least. I'll send an embrocation over to the Guest House. I heard you were settled in there." "Why have you not answered my letters?" he asked, going straight for the point, but not reaching it, owing to buckets of rain. His companion, new to the country, cried, as the drops drummed on his topi, that the bees were renewing their attack. Fielding checked his antics rather sharply, then said: "Is there a short cut down to our carriage? We must give up our walk. The weather's pestilential." "Yes. That way." "Are you not coming down yourself?" Aziz sketched a comic salaam; like all Indians, he was skilful in the slighter impertinences. "I tremble, I obey," the gesture said, and it was not lost upon Fielding. They walked down a rough path to the road the two men first; the brother-in-law (boy rather than man) next, in a state over his arm, which hurt; the three Indian children last, noisy and impudent all six wet through. "How goes it, Aziz?" "In my usual health." "Are you making anything out of your life here?" "How much do you make out of yours?" "Who is in charge of the Guest House?" he asked, giving up his slight effort to recapture their intimacy, and growing more official; he was older and sterner. "His Highness's Private Secretary, probably." "Where is he, then?" "I don't know." "Because not a soul's been near us since we arrived." "Really." "I wrote beforehand to the Durbar, and asked if a visit was convenient. I was told it was, and arranged my tour accordingly; but the Guest House servants appear to have no definite instructions, we can't get any eggs, also my wife wants to go out in the boat." "There are two boats." "Exactly, and no oars." "Colonel Maggs broke the oars when here last." "All four?" "He is a most powerful man." "If the weather lifts, we want to see your torchlight procession from the water this evening," he pursued. "I wrote to Godbole about it, but he has taken no notice; it's a place of the dead." "Perhaps your letter never reached the Minister in question." "Will there be any objection to English people watching the procession?" "I know nothing at all about the religion here. I should never think of watching it myself." "We had a very different reception both at Mudkul and Deora, they were kindness itself at Deora, the Maharajah and Maharani wanted us to see everything." "You should never have left them." "Jump in, Ralph" they had reached the carriage. "Jump in, Mr. Quested, and Mr. Fielding." "Who on earth is Mr. Quested?" "Do I mispronounce that well known name? Is he not your wife's brother?" "Who on earth do you suppose I've married?" "I'm only Ralph Moore," said the boy, blushing, and at that moment there fell another pailful of the rain, and made a mist round their feet. Aziz tried to withdraw, but it was too late. "Quested? Quested? Don't you know that my wife was Mrs. Moore's daughter?" He trembled, and went purplish grey; he hated the news, hated hearing the name Moore. "Perhaps this explains your odd attitude?" "And pray what is wrong with my attitude?" "The preposterous letter you allowed Mahmoud Ali to write for you." "This is a very useless conversation, I consider." "However did you make such a mistake?" said Fielding, more friendly than before, but scathing and scornful. "It's almost unbelievable. I should think I wrote you half a dozen times, mentioning my wife by name. Miss Quested! What an extraordinary notion!" From his smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. "Miss Quested is our best friend, she introduced us, but . . . what an amazing notion. Aziz, we must thrash this misunderstanding out later on. It is clearly some devilry of Mahmoud Ali's. He knows perfectly well I married Miss Moore. He called her Heaslop's sister' in his insolent letter to me." The name woke furies in him. "So she is, and here is Heaslop's brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good-bye." Shame turned into a rage that brought back his self-respect. "What does it matter to me who you marry? Don't trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: "Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend." He returned to the house excited and happy. It had been an uneasy, uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore's name was mentioned, stirring memories. "Esmiss Esmoor . . ." as though she was coming to help him. She had always been so good, and that youth whom he had scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella and Ralph, whom he had promised to be kind to, and Stella had married Cyril. CHAPTER XXXVI All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed despite fulfilment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had been born, His procession loosely supposed by many to be the birth had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours of this day were signalized by performances of great beauty in the private apartments of the Rajah. He owned a consecrated troupe of men and boys, whose duty it was to dance various actions and meditations of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could witness the Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, the mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu who (with comic results) invoked the God before dining. All culminated in the dance of the milkmaidens before Krishna, and in the still greater dance of Krishna before the milkmaidens, when the music and the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors into their tinsel crowns, and all became one. The Rajah and his guests would then forget that this was a dramatic performance, and would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort could occur to-day, because death interrupts. It interrupted less here than in Europe, its pathos was less poignant, its irony less cruel. There were two claimants to the throne, unfortunately, who were in the palace now and suspected what had happened, yet they made no trouble, because religion is a living force to the Hindus, and can at certain moments fling down everything that is petty and temporary in their natures. The festival flowed on, wild and sincere, and all men loved each other, and avoided by instinct whatever could cause inconvenience or pain. Aziz could not understand this, any more than an average Christian could. He was puzzled that Mau should suddenly be purged from suspicion and self-seeking. Although he was an outsider, and excluded from their rites, they were always particularly charming to him at this time; he and his household received small courtesies and presents, just because he was outside. He had nothing to do all day, except to send the embrocation over to the Guest House, and towards sunset he remembered it, and looked round his house for a local palliative, for the dispensary was shut. He found a tin of ointment belonging to Mohammed Latif, who was unwilling it should be removed, for magic words had been spoken over it while it was being boiled down, but Aziz promised that he would bring it back after application to the stings: he wanted an excuse for a ride. The procession was beginning to form as he passed the palace. A large crowd watched the loading of the State palanquin, the prow of which protruded in the form of a silver dragon's head through the lofty half-opened door. Gods, big and little, were getting aboard. He averted his eyes, for he never knew how much he was supposed to see, and nearly collided with the Minister of Education. "Ah, you might make me late" meaning that the touch of a non-Hindu would necessitate another bath; the words were spoken without moral heat. "Sorry," said Aziz. The other smiled, and again mentioned the Guest House party, and when he heard that Fielding's wife was not Miss Quested after all, remarked "Ah, no, he married the sister of Mr. Heaslop. Ah, exactly, I have known that for over a year" also without heat. "Why did you not tell me? Your silence plunged me into a pretty pickle." Godbole, who had never been known to tell anyone anything,
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arranged my tour accordingly; but the Guest House servants appear to have no definite instructions, we can't get any eggs, also my wife wants to go out in the boat." "There are two boats." "Exactly, and no oars." "Colonel Maggs broke the oars when here last." "All four?" "He is a most powerful man." "If the weather lifts, we want to see your torchlight procession from the water this evening," he pursued. "I wrote to Godbole about it, but he has taken no notice; it's a place of the dead." "Perhaps your letter never reached the Minister in question." "Will there be any objection to English people watching the procession?" "I know nothing at all about the religion here. I should never think of watching it myself." "We had a very different reception both at Mudkul and Deora, they were kindness itself at Deora, the Maharajah and Maharani wanted us to see everything." "You should never have left them." "Jump in, Ralph" they had reached the carriage. "Jump in, Mr. Quested, and Mr. Fielding." "Who on earth is Mr. Quested?" "Do I mispronounce that well known name? Is he not your wife's brother?" "Who on earth do you suppose I've married?" "I'm only Ralph Moore," said the boy, blushing, and at that moment there fell another pailful of the rain, and made a mist round their feet. Aziz tried to withdraw, but it was too late. "Quested? Quested? Don't you know that my wife was Mrs. Moore's daughter?" He trembled, and went purplish grey; he hated the news, hated hearing the name Moore. "Perhaps this explains your odd attitude?" "And pray what is wrong with my attitude?" "The preposterous letter you allowed Mahmoud Ali to write for you." "This is a very useless conversation, I consider." "However did you make such a mistake?" said Fielding, more friendly than before, but scathing and scornful. "It's almost unbelievable. I should think I wrote you half a dozen times, mentioning my wife by name. Miss Quested! What an extraordinary notion!" From his smile, Aziz guessed that Stella was beautiful. "Miss Quested is our best friend, she introduced us, but . . . what an amazing notion. Aziz, we must thrash this misunderstanding out later on. It is clearly some devilry of Mahmoud Ali's. He knows perfectly well I married Miss Moore. He called her Heaslop's sister' in his insolent letter to me." The name woke furies in him. "So she is, and here is Heaslop's brother, and you his brother-in-law, and good-bye." Shame turned into a rage that brought back his self-respect. "What does it matter to me who you marry? Don't trouble me here at Mau is all I ask. I do not want you, I do not want one of you in my private life, with my dying breath I say it. Yes, yes, I made a foolish blunder; despise me and feel cold. I thought you married my enemy. I never read your letter. Mahmoud Ali deceived me. I thought you'd stolen my money, but" he clapped his hands together, and his children gathered round him "it's as if you stole it. I forgive Mahmoud Ali all things, because he loved me."<|quote|>Then pausing, while the rain exploded like pistols, he said,</|quote|>"My heart is for my own people henceforward," and turned away. Cyril followed him through the mud, apologizing, laughing a little, wanting to argue and reconstruct, pointing out with irrefragable logic that he had married, not Heaslop's betrothed, but Heaslop's sister. What difference did it make at this hour of the day? He had built his life on a mistake, but he had built it. Speaking in Urdu, that the children might understand, he said: "Please do not follow us, whomever you marry. I wish no Englishman or Englishwoman to be my friend." He returned to the house excited and happy. It had been an uneasy, uncanny moment when Mrs. Moore's name was mentioned, stirring memories. "Esmiss Esmoor . . ." as though she was coming to help him. She had always been so good, and that youth whom he had scarcely looked at was her son, Ralph Moore, Stella and Ralph, whom he had promised to be kind to, and Stella had married Cyril. CHAPTER XXXVI All the time the palace ceased not to thrum and tum-tum. The revelation was over, but its effect lasted, and its effect was to make men feel that the revelation had not yet come. Hope existed despite fulfilment, as it will be in heaven. Although the God had been born, His procession loosely supposed by many to be the birth had not taken place. In normal years, the middle hours of this day were signalized by performances of great beauty in the private apartments of the Rajah. He owned a consecrated troupe of men and boys, whose duty it was to dance various actions and meditations of his faith before him. Seated at his ease, he could witness the Three Steps by which the Saviour ascended the universe to the discomfiture of Indra, also the death of the dragon, the mountain that turned into an umbrella, and the saddhu who (with comic results) invoked the God before dining. All culminated in the dance of the milkmaidens before Krishna, and in the still greater dance of Krishna before the milkmaidens, when the music and the musicians swirled through the dark blue robes of the actors into their tinsel crowns, and all became one. The Rajah and his guests would then forget that this was a dramatic performance, and would worship the actors. Nothing of the sort could occur to-day, because death interrupts. It interrupted less here than in Europe, its pathos was less poignant,
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A Passage To India
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Bill said.
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No speaker
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all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider.
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"Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a
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to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill
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to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his
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not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again. "You've got some fine ones yourself." "Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful." "He can be damn nice." "I know it. That's the terrible part." I laughed. "Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night until two o'clock." "Was he very bad?" "Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He
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to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too." "Where were you?" "Here. And after it shut we went over to that other caf . The old man there speaks German and English." "The Caf Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better caf than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again. "You've got some fine ones yourself." "Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful." "He can be damn nice." "I know it. That's the terrible part." I laughed. "Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night until two o'clock." "Was he very bad?" "Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?" "--he slurred that over--" "or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son" "--he pointed the razor at me--" "go west with this face and grow up with the country." He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked
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said. Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing a bottle of wine. "Didn't come, eh?" "No." "Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in the morning, Cohn?" Bill asked. "I haven't changed any money here yet." "Oh, forget about it," Robert Cohn said. "Let's bet on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?" "You could," Bill said, "but you don't need to." "It would be like betting on the war," I said. "You don't need any economic interest." "I'm very curious to see them," Robert said. Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in his hand. "It's for you." He handed it to me. It read: "Stopped night San Sebastian." "It's from them," I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordinarily I should have handed it over. "They've stopped over in San Sebastian," I said. "Send their regards to you." Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch--that and when he went through all that barbering. So I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to me, anyway. "Well," I said. "We ought to pull out on the noon bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in to-morrow night." There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, an early morning train and the one we had just met. "That sounds like a good idea," Cohn said. "The sooner we get on the stream the better." "It's all one to me when we start," Bill said. "The sooner the better." We sat in the Iru a for a while and had coffee and then took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. Bill and Cohn stayed out in the caf quite late, I believe, because I was asleep when they came in. In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o'clock. There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the Iru a reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn coming across the square. He came up to the table and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. "This is a comfortable caf ," he said. "Did you have a good night, Jake?" "I slept like a log." "I didn't sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, too." "Where were you?" "Here. And after it shut we went over to that other caf . The old man there speaks German and English." "The Caf Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better caf than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again. "You've got some fine ones yourself." "Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful." "He can be damn nice." "I know it. That's the terrible part." I laughed. "Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night until two o'clock." "Was he very bad?" "Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?" "--he slurred that over--" "or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son" "--he pointed the razor at me--" "go west with this face and grow up with the country." He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked at himself carefully in the glass, pulling down his long upper lip. "My God!" he said, "isn't it an awful face?" He looked in the glass. "And as for this Robert Cohn," Bill said, "he makes me sick, and he can go to hell, and I'm damn glad he's staying here so we won't have him fishing with us." "You're damn right." "We're going trout-fishing. We're going trout-fishing in the Irati River, and we're going to get tight now at lunch on the wine of the country, and then take a swell bus ride." "Come on. Let's go over to the Iru a and start," I said. CHAPTER 11 It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered
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out late, too." "Where were you?" "Here. And after it shut we went over to that other caf . The old man there speaks German and English." "The Caf Suizo." "That's it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think it's a better caf than this one." "It's not so good in the daytime," I said. "Too hot. By the way, I got the bus tickets." "I'm not going up to-day. You and Bill go on ahead." "I've got your ticket." "Give it to me. I'll get the money back." "It's five pesetas." Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and gave it to me. "I ought to stay," he said. "You see I'm afraid there's some sort of misunderstanding." "Why," I said. "They may not come here for three or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebastian." "That's just it," said Robert. "I'm afraid they expected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that's why they stopped over." "What makes you think that?" "Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett." "Why in hell didn't you stay there and meet them then?" I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe it ever did. He was being confidential now and it was giving him pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that I knew there was something between him and Brett. "Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch," I said. "I wish I could go. We've been looking forward to this fishing all winter." He was being sentimental about it. "But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as they come I'll bring them right up." "Let's find Bill." "I want to go over to the barber-shop." "See you at lunch." I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. "Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"He's a great little confider. He said he had a date with Brett at San Sebastian." "The lying bastard!" "Oh, no," said Bill. "Don't get sore. Don't get sore at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to know this fellow, anyway?" "Don't rub it in." Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. "Didn't you send him with a letter to me in New York last winter? Thank God, I'm a travelling man. Haven't you got some more Jewish friends you could bring along?" He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked at it, and then started scraping again. "You've got some fine ones yourself." "Oh, yes. I've got some darbs. But not alongside of this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he's nice, too. I like him. But he's just so awful." "He can be damn nice." "I know it. That's the terrible part." I laughed. "Yes. Go on and laugh," said Bill. "You weren't out with him last night until two o'clock." "Was he very bad?" "Awful. What's all this about him and Brett, anyway? Did she ever have anything to do with him?" He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. "Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him." "What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do that?" "She wanted to get out of town and she can't go anywhere alone. She said she thought it would be good for him." "What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn't she go off with some of her own people? Or you?" "--he slurred that over--" "or me? Why not me?" He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheek-bone. "It's an honest face. It's a face any woman would be safe with." "She'd never seen it." "She should have. All women should see it. It's a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son" "--he pointed the razor at me--" "go west with this face and grow up with the
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."
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The Invisible Man
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on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common
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on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all
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was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I
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an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head
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Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little." Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up
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the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little." Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright.
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was a draught down my back. Twice I strangled a sneeze just in time." "The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but for all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his eating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on the black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all the crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of things after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind him as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting doors and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and scullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then, finding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold on my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It was burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The noise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered about the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that examination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway and took a final inspection before he went down." "I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and opened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him." "On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered into him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening." I could have sworn, "he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower lip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went on up again." "His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with the same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little." Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of silver, and in a locked cupboard I burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I could go forth into the world again, equipped." "Then came a curious hesitation. Was my appearance really credible? I tried myself with a little bedroom looking-glass, inspecting myself from every point of view to discover any forgotten chink, but it all seemed sound. I was grotesque to the theatrical pitch, a stage miser, but I was certainly not a physical impossibility. Gathering confidence, I took my looking-glass down into the shop, pulled down the shop blinds, and surveyed myself from every point of view with the help of the cheval glass in the corner." "I spent some minutes screwing up my courage and then unlocked the shop door and marched out into the street, leaving
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began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little." Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp.<|quote|>"Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots."</|quote|>"But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone," said Kemp. "It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that
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The Invisible Man
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"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."
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Elinor
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"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to
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to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound
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in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to
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he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and
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different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice
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composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother,
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of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man s address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching. "In a few months, my dear Marianne," said she, "Elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be happy." "Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?" "My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward s heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister s choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet he is not the kind of young man there is something wanting his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor s drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him that I greatly esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment." Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of
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that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor s drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!" "He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper." "Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!" CHAPTER IV. "What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing." "No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor,<|quote|>"you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."</|quote|>Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied: "Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been
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Sense And Sensibility
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"It is indeed,"
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Lucy
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Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a
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carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What
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altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word,
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carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's
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beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment? Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to," but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the
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he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves." Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts. "If that is so, dear--if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr. Eager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish." "How?" "Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too." "That will mean another carriage." "Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him." They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer, or at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another--were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment? Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to," but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns. "And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. "Do you know the Vyses?" "Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria." "They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's really clever. Don't you long to be in Rome?" "I die for it!" The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance--unless we believe in a presiding genius of places--the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, and though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god. "Charlotte!" cried the girl suddenly. "Here's an idea. What if we popped
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that already." "Lucy, dear--" said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin's penetration. "I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy--an innocent child at the time--I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him." "Perhaps," said Miss Bartlett, "it is something that we had better not hear." "To speak plainly," said Mr. Eager, "it is. I will say no more." For the first time Lucy's rebellious thoughts swept out in words--for the first time in her life. "You have said very little." "It was my intention to say very little," was his frigid reply. He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation. She turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him. "Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily. "That man murdered his wife!" "How?" she retorted. "To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce--did they say anything against me?" "Not a word, Mr. Eager--not a single word." "Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them." "I'm not defending them," said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. "They're nothing to me." "How could you think she was defending them?" said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening. "She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God." The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street. "I must be going," said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch. Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive. "Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?" Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored. "Bother the drive!" exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. "It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves." Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts. "If that is so, dear--if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr. Eager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish." "How?" "Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too." "That will mean another carriage." "Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him." They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer, or at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another--were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment? Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to," but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns. "And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. "Do you know the Vyses?" "Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria." "They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's really clever. Don't you long to be in Rome?" "I die for it!" The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance--unless we believe in a presiding genius of places--the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, and though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god. "Charlotte!" cried the girl suddenly. "Here's an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow--straight to the Vyses' hotel? For I do know what I want. I'm sick of Florence. No, you said you'd go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!" Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied: "Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?" They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion. Chapter VI: The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them. It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master's horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister--Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother's cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god. Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr. Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind. It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his partie carree thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated
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with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves." Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts. "If that is so, dear--if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr. Eager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish." "How?" "Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too." "That will mean another carriage." "Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him." They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer, or at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another--were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment? Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to," but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"<|quote|>"It is indeed,"</|quote|>replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic. "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress. "I don't know what I think, nor what I want." "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer. There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns. "And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett. "Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. "Do you know the Vyses?" "Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria." "They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's really clever. Don't you long to be in Rome?" "I die for it!" The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance--unless we believe in a presiding genius of places--the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, and though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience,
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A Room With A View
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cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
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No speaker
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before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah,
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"Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more
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threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill,
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to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going
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for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was
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should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed
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his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. "Get up!" said the man. "It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. "It is," was the reply. "Get up." There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. "Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. "There's enough light for wot I've got to do." "Bill," said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, "why do you look like that at me!" The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth. "Bill, Bill!" gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear, "I I won't scream or cry not once hear me speak to me tell me what I have done!" "You know, you she devil!" returned the robber, suppressing his breath. "You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard." "Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours," rejoined the girl, clinging to him. "Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You _shall_ have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!" The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away. "Bill," cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, "the gentleman
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speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people." "So she did." "A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!"<|quote|>cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.</|quote|>"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration;
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Oliver Twist
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"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"
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Bill Sikes
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its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long
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of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said
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with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards,
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when he had finished. "Yes, I see it is, sir," replied Oliver. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life." "That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; "women can always put things in fewest words. Except when
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corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him. "Now, first: do you know wot this is?" inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table. Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Well, then, look here," continued Sikes. "This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'." Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation. "Now it's loaded," said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished. "Yes, I see it is, sir," replied Oliver. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life." "That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; "women can always put things in fewest words. Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze before starting." In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of "jemmies" being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps
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utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut. "This way," said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. "Bill!" "Hallo!" replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. "Oh! That's the time of day. Come on!" This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially. "Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom," observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. "He'd have been in the way." "That's right," rejoined Nancy. "So you've got the kid," said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke. "Yes, here he is," replied Nancy. "Did he come quiet?" inquired Sikes. "Like a lamb," rejoined Nancy. "I'm glad to hear it," said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; "for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young 'un; and let me read you a lectur', which is as well got over at once." Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him. "Now, first: do you know wot this is?" inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table. Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Well, then, look here," continued Sikes. "This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'." Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation. "Now it's loaded," said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished. "Yes, I see it is, sir," replied Oliver. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life." "That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; "women can always put things in fewest words. Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze before starting." In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of "jemmies" being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal. Supper being ended it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time. For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep. When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was
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is not the time." Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness. "I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now," continued the girl aloud; "for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it." She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with great rapidity: "Remember this! And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don't mean to harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!" She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant. The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps had been directed on the previous evening. For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut. "This way," said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. "Bill!" "Hallo!" replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. "Oh! That's the time of day. Come on!" This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially. "Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom," observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. "He'd have been in the way." "That's right," rejoined Nancy. "So you've got the kid," said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke. "Yes, here he is," replied Nancy. "Did he come quiet?" inquired Sikes. "Like a lamb," rejoined Nancy. "I'm glad to hear it," said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; "for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young 'un; and let me read you a lectur', which is as well got over at once." Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him. "Now, first: do you know wot this is?" inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table. Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Well, then, look here," continued Sikes. "This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'." Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation. "Now it's loaded," said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished. "Yes, I see it is, sir," replied Oliver. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life." "That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; "women can always put things in fewest words. Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze before starting." In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of "jemmies" being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal. Supper being ended it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time. For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep. When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy. "Now, then!" growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; "half-past five! Look sharp, or you'll get no breakfast; for it's late as it is." Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready. Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away. Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it. CHAPTER XXI. THE EXPEDITION It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were noiseless and empty. By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash
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by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant. The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps had been directed on the previous evening. For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut. "This way," said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. "Bill!" "Hallo!" replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. "Oh! That's the time of day. Come on!" This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially. "Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom," observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. "He'd have been in the way." "That's right," rejoined Nancy. "So you've got the kid," said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke. "Yes, here he is," replied Nancy. "Did he come quiet?" inquired Sikes. "Like a lamb," rejoined Nancy. "I'm glad to hear it," said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; "for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young 'un; and let me read you a lectur', which is as well got over at once." Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him. "Now, first: do you know wot this is?" inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table. Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Well, then, look here," continued Sikes. "This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'." Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation. "Now it's loaded," said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished. "Yes, I see it is, sir," replied Oliver. "Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first." Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.<|quote|>"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye hear me?"</|quote|>"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy: speaking very emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of your life." "That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; "women can always put things in fewest words. Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze before starting." In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of "jemmies" being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal. Supper being ended it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time. For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep. When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy. "Now, then!" growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; "half-past five! Look sharp, or you'll get no breakfast; for it's late as it is." Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready. Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat; Sikes gave him a
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Oliver Twist
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"So much for my infidelity,"
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Tony Last
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and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious
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Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will
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you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little
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said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could
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time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly
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and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends
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their rooms, however, she said, "Go quietly. We don't want to wake Winnie." For an hour or so Tony lay in the warm little bedroom, reviewing over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's. He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was due solely to his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay that gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him that he looked at all unusual. Rather more than half Reggie St Cloud's time and income was spent abroad in modest archaeological expeditions. His house in London was full of
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on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things.<|quote|>"So much for my infidelity,"</|quote|>he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?" "Certainly." Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A
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A Handful Of Dust
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said Anne.
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No speaker
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out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written
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liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall
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been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh,
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her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with
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old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth." "Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, "that anybody would." Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. "Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone_ on you. He told his mother--his _mother_, mind
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and we can look down to the Lake of Shining Waters. There are a lot of nice girls in school and we had scrumptious fun playing at dinnertime. It's so nice to have a lot of little girls to play with. But of course I like Diana best and always will. I _adore_ Diana. I'm dreadfully far behind the others. They're all in the fifth book and I'm only in the fourth. I feel that it's kind of a disgrace. But there's not one of them has such an imagination as I have and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful and he held up my slate so that everybody could see it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla; he might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a lovely pink card with" ?May I see you home?' "on it. I'm to give it back to her tomorrow. And Tillie Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth." "Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, "that anybody would." Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. "Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone_ on you. He told his mother--his _mother_, mind you--that you were the smartest girl in school. That's better than being good looking." "No, it isn't," said Anne, feminine to the core. "I'd rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie Sloane, I can't bear a boy with goggle eyes. If anyone wrote my name up with his I'd never _get_ over it, Diana Barry. But it _is_ nice to keep head of your class." "You'll have Gilbert in your class after this," said Diana, "and he's used to being head of his class, I can tell you. He's only in the fourth book although he's nearly fourteen. Four years ago his father was sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health and Gilbert went with him. They were there three years and Gil didn't go to school hardly any until they came back. You won't find it so easy to keep head after this, Anne." "I'm glad," said Anne quickly. "I couldn't really feel proud of keeping head of little boys and girls of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling ?ebullition.' Josie Pye was head and, mind you, she peeped in her book. Mr. Phillips didn't see her--he was looking at
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and then it was just up the spruce hill to the school. The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building, low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished inside with comfortable substantial old-fashioned desks that opened and shut, and were carved all over their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three generations of school children. The schoolhouse was set back from the road and behind it was a dusky fir wood and a brook where all the children put their bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet until dinner hour. Marilla had seen Anne start off to school on the first day of September with many secret misgivings. Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on with the other children? And how on earth would she ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours? Things went better than Marilla feared, however. Anne came home that evening in high spirits. "I think I'm going to like school here," she announced. "I don't think much of the master, through. He's all the time curling his mustache and making eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy is grown up, you know. She's sixteen and she's studying for the entrance examination into Queen's Academy at Charlottetown next year. Tillie Boulter says the master is _dead gone_ on her. She's got a beautiful complexion and curly brown hair and she does it up so elegantly. She sits in the long seat at the back and he sits there, too, most of the time--to explain her lessons, he says. But Ruby Gillis says she saw him writing something on her slate and when Prissy read it she blushed as red as a beet and giggled; and Ruby Gillis says she doesn't believe it had anything to do with the lesson." "Anne Shirley, don't let me hear you talking about your teacher in that way again," said Marilla sharply. "You don't go to school to criticize the master. I guess he can teach _you_ something, and it's your business to learn. And I want you to understand right off that you are not to come home telling tales about him. That is something I won't encourage. I hope you were a good girl." "Indeed I was," said Anne comfortably. "It wasn't so hard as you might imagine, either. I sit with Diana. Our seat is right by the window and we can look down to the Lake of Shining Waters. There are a lot of nice girls in school and we had scrumptious fun playing at dinnertime. It's so nice to have a lot of little girls to play with. But of course I like Diana best and always will. I _adore_ Diana. I'm dreadfully far behind the others. They're all in the fifth book and I'm only in the fourth. I feel that it's kind of a disgrace. But there's not one of them has such an imagination as I have and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful and he held up my slate so that everybody could see it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla; he might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a lovely pink card with" ?May I see you home?' "on it. I'm to give it back to her tomorrow. And Tillie Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth." "Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, "that anybody would." Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. "Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone_ on you. He told his mother--his _mother_, mind you--that you were the smartest girl in school. That's better than being good looking." "No, it isn't," said Anne, feminine to the core. "I'd rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie Sloane, I can't bear a boy with goggle eyes. If anyone wrote my name up with his I'd never _get_ over it, Diana Barry. But it _is_ nice to keep head of your class." "You'll have Gilbert in your class after this," said Diana, "and he's used to being head of his class, I can tell you. He's only in the fourth book although he's nearly fourteen. Four years ago his father was sick and had to go out to Alberta for his health and Gilbert went with him. They were there three years and Gil didn't go to school hardly any until they came back. You won't find it so easy to keep head after this, Anne." "I'm glad," said Anne quickly. "I couldn't really feel proud of keeping head of little boys and girls of just nine or ten. I got up yesterday spelling ?ebullition.' Josie Pye was head and, mind you, she peeped in her book. Mr. Phillips didn't see her--he was looking at Prissy Andrews--but I did. I just swept her a look of freezing scorn and she got as red as a beet and spelled it wrong after all." "Those Pye girls are cheats all round," said Diana indignantly, as they climbed the fence of the main road. "Gertie Pye actually went and put her milk bottle in my place in the brook yesterday. Did you ever? I don't speak to her now." When Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room hearing Prissy Andrews's Latin, Diana whispered to Anne, "That's Gilbert Blythe sitting right across the aisle from you, Anne. Just look at him and see if you don't think he's handsome." Anne looked accordingly. She had a good chance to do so, for the said Gilbert Blythe was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long yellow braid of Ruby Gillis, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. He was a tall boy, with curly brown hair, roguish hazel eyes, and a mouth twisted into a teasing smile. Presently Ruby Gillis started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her and Mr. Phillips glared so sternly that Ruby began to cry. Gilbert had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the soberest face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Anne and winked with inexpressible drollery. "I think your Gilbert Blythe _is_ handsome," confided Anne to Diana, "but I think he's very bold. It isn't good manners to wink at a strange girl." But it was not until the afternoon that things really began to happen. Mr. Phillips was back in the corner explaining a problem in algebra to Prissy Andrews and the rest of the scholars were doing pretty much as they pleased eating green apples, whispering, drawing pictures on their slates, and driving crickets harnessed to strings, up and down aisle. Gilbert Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him and failing utterly, because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious not only to the very existence of Gilbert Blythe, but of every other scholar in Avonlea school itself. With her chin propped on her hands and her eyes fixed on the blue glimpse of the Lake of Shining
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business to learn. And I want you to understand right off that you are not to come home telling tales about him. That is something I won't encourage. I hope you were a good girl." "Indeed I was," said Anne comfortably. "It wasn't so hard as you might imagine, either. I sit with Diana. Our seat is right by the window and we can look down to the Lake of Shining Waters. There are a lot of nice girls in school and we had scrumptious fun playing at dinnertime. It's so nice to have a lot of little girls to play with. But of course I like Diana best and always will. I _adore_ Diana. I'm dreadfully far behind the others. They're all in the fifth book and I'm only in the fourth. I feel that it's kind of a disgrace. But there's not one of them has such an imagination as I have and I soon found that out. We had reading and geography and Canadian history and dictation today. Mr. Phillips said my spelling was disgraceful and he held up my slate so that everybody could see it, all marked over. I felt so mortified, Marilla; he might have been politer to a stranger, I think. Ruby Gillis gave me an apple and Sophia Sloane lent me a lovely pink card with" ?May I see you home?' "on it. I'm to give it back to her tomorrow. And Tillie Boulter let me wear her bead ring all the afternoon. Can I have some of those pearl beads off the old pincushion in the garret to make myself a ring? And oh, Marilla, Jane Andrews told me that Minnie MacPherson told her that she heard Prissy Andrews tell Sara Gillis that I had a very pretty nose. Marilla, that is the first compliment I have ever had in my life and you can't imagine what a strange feeling it gave me. Marilla, have I really a pretty nose? I know you'll tell me the truth." "Your nose is well enough," said Marilla shortly. Secretly she thought Anne's nose was a remarkable pretty one; but she had no intention of telling her so. That was three weeks ago and all had gone smoothly so far. And now, this crisp September morning, Anne and Diana were tripping blithely down the Birch Path, two of the happiest little girls in Avonlea. "I guess Gilbert Blythe will be in school today," said Diana. "He's been visiting his cousins over in New Brunswick all summer and he only came home Saturday night. He's _aw'fly_ handsome, Anne. And he teases the girls something terrible. He just torments our lives out." Diana's voice indicated that she rather liked having her life tormented out than not. "Gilbert Blythe?"<|quote|>said Anne.</|quote|>"Isn't his name that's written up on the porch wall with Julia Bell's and a big ?Take Notice' over them?" "Yes," said Diana, tossing her head, "but I'm sure he doesn't like Julia Bell so very much. I've heard him say he studied the multiplication table by her freckles." "Oh, don't speak about freckles to me," implored Anne. "It isn't delicate when I've got so many. But I do think that writing take-notices up on the wall about the boys and girls is the silliest ever. I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy's. Not, of course," she hastened to add, "that anybody would." Anne sighed. She didn't want her name written up. But it was a little humiliating to know that there was no danger of it. "Nonsense," said Diana, whose black eyes and glossy tresses had played such havoc with the hearts of Avonlea schoolboys that her name figured on the porch walls in half a dozen take-notices. "It's only meant as a joke. And don't you be too sure your name won't ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is _dead gone_ on you. He told his mother--his _mother_, mind you--that you were the smartest girl in school. That's better than being good looking." "No, it isn't," said Anne, feminine to the core. "I'd rather be pretty than clever. And I hate Charlie Sloane, I can't bear a boy with goggle eyes. If anyone wrote my name up with his I'd never
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.
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No speaker
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is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be
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much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to
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if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good,
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about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant." Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "It's only for a few days." "But why at all?" Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say,
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shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him." "No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it." "No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy. "Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case--" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!" They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just got through that time." But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant." Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "It's only for a few days." "But why at all?" Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again" "--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul. Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does
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perched there before crossing the great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental necessaries. That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one's face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed. "But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by." Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon her card-case. "We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you," Miss Catharine continued. "It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on." "Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters. "However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him." "No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it." "No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy. "Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case--" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!" They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just got through that time." But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant." Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "It's only for a few days." "But why at all?" Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again" "--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul. Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if she can leave her home." And as in her case thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with: "You're tired of Windy Corner." This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, "I do not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; everyone else is behaving very badly." She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded with the conversation. "Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I'm not tired of Windy Corner." "Then why not say so
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his lips. Oddly enough, the group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the art of the past, was reminded of a favourite theme, the Santa Conversazione, in which people who care for one another are painted chatting together about noble things--a theme neither sensual nor sensational, and therefore ignored by the art of to-day. Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel when she had such friends at home? "Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, Speak not when the people listens," she continued. "Here's Mr. Beebe." "Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways." "It's a beautiful song and a wise one," said he. "Go on." "It isn't very good," she said listlessly. "I forget why--harmony or something." "I suspected it was unscholarly. It's so beautiful." "The tune's right enough," said Freddy, "but the words are rotten. Why throw up the sponge?" "How stupidly you talk!" said his sister. The Santa Conversazione was broken up. After all, there was no reason that Lucy should talk about Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he said good-bye. Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: "This has been a day and a half." "Stop thine ear against the singer--" "Wait a minute; she is finishing." "From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die." "I love weather like this," said Freddy. Mr. Beebe passed into it. The two main facts were clear. She had behaved splendidly, and he had helped her. He could not expect to master the details of so big a change in a girl's life. If here and there he was dissatisfied or puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing the better part. "Vacant heart and hand and eye--" Perhaps the song stated "the better part" rather too strongly. He half fancied that the soaring accompaniment--which he did not lose in the shout of the gale--really agreed with Freddy, and was gently criticizing the words that it adorned: "Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die." However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay poised below him--now as a beacon in the roaring tides of darkness. Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel near Bloomsbury--a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincial England. They always perched there before crossing the great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental necessaries. That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one's face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed. "But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by." Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon her card-case. "We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you," Miss Catharine continued. "It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on." "Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters. "However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him." "No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it." "No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy. "Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case--" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!" They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just got through that time." But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant." Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "It's only for a few days." "But why at all?" Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again" "--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul. Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if she can leave her home." And as in her case thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with: "You're tired of Windy Corner." This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, "I do not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; everyone else is behaving very badly." She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded with the conversation. "Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I'm not tired of Windy Corner." "Then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?" She laughed faintly, "Half a minute would be nearer." "Perhaps you would like to stay away from your home altogether?" "Hush, mother! People will hear you" "; for they had entered Mudie's. She bought Baedeker, and then continued: "Of course I want to live at home; but as we are talking about it, I may as well say that I shall want to be away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into my money next year." Tears came into her mother's eyes. Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is in older people termed "eccentricity," Lucy determined to make this point clear. "I've seen the world so little--I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so little of life; one ought to come up to London more--not a cheap ticket like to-day, but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little with some other girl." "And mess with typewriters and latch-keys," exploded Mrs. Honeychurch. "And agitate and scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. And call it a Mission--when no one wants you! And call it Duty--when it means that you can't stand your own home! And call it Work--when thousands of men are starving with the competition as it is! And then to prepare yourself, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them." "I want more independence," said Lucy lamely; she knew that she wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that we have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue. "Very well. Take your independence and be gone. Rush up and down and round the world, and come back as thin as a lath with the bad food. Despise the house that your father built and the garden that he planted, and our dear view--and then share a flat with another girl." Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: "Perhaps I spoke hastily." "Oh, goodness!" her mother flashed. "How you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlett!" "Charlotte!" flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced at last by a vivid pain. "More every moment." "I don't know what you mean, mother; Charlotte and I are not
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regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one's face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed. "But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by." Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon her card-case. "We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you," Miss Catharine continued. "It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on." "Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters. "However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him." "No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it." "No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy. "Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case--" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!" They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just got through that time." But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant." Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time. "But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?" "Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."<|quote|>"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.</|quote|>"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book." "You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "It's only for a few days." "But why at all?" Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again" "--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul. Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if she can leave her home." And as in her case thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with: "You're tired of Windy Corner." This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, "I do not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; everyone else is behaving very badly." She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded with the conversation. "Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I'm not tired of Windy Corner." "Then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?" She laughed faintly, "Half a minute would be nearer." "Perhaps you would like to stay away from your home altogether?" "Hush, mother! People will hear you" "; for they had entered Mudie's. She bought Baedeker, and then continued: "Of course I want to live at home; but as we are talking about it, I may as well say that I shall want to be away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into my money next year." Tears came into her mother's eyes. Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is in older people termed "eccentricity," Lucy determined to make this point clear. "I've seen the world so little--I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so little of life; one ought to come up to London
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A Room With A View
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"I don't know where she is."
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Jake Barnes
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is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You
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up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell
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when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap.
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newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I
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"What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike
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he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to
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a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back," Mike said. "I always pay everything back." "That's why you're a bankrupt, isn't it?" Edna said. I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play. "I'm going over to the hotel," I said. Then I heard them talking about me. "Is he all right?" Edna asked. "We'd better walk with him." "I'm all right," I said. "Don't come. I'll see you all later." I walked away from the caf . They were sitting at the table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands. Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the game. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase. There was a light in the room. Bill came out and met me in the hall. "Say," he said, "go up and
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"Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and newspapers around them. They were waiting for the wickets to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of the people in the line were sleeping. At the Caf Suizo we had just sat down and ordered Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. "Where's Brett?" he asked. "I don't know." "She was with you." "She must have gone to bed." "She's not." "I don't know where she is." His face was sallow under the light. He was standing up. "Tell me where she is." "Sit down," I said.<|quote|>"I don't know where she is."</|quote|>"The hell you don't!" "You can shut your face." "Tell me where Brett is." "I'll not tell you a damn thing." "You know where she is." "If I did I wouldn't tell you." "Oh, go to hell, Cohn," Mike called from the table. "Brett's gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They're on their honeymoon." "You shut up." "Oh, go to hell!" Mike said languidly. "Is that where she is?" Cohn turned to me. "Go to hell!" "She was with you. Is that where she is?" "Go to hell!" "I'll make you tell me" "--he stepped forward--" "you damned pimp." I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. "I say, you were cold," Mike said. "Where the hell were you?" "Oh, I was around." "You didn't want to mix in it?" "He knocked Mike down, too," Edna said. "He didn't knock me out," Mike said. "I just lay there." "Does this happen every night at your fiestas?" Edna asked. "Wasn't that Mr. Cohn?" "I'm all right," I said. "My head's a little wobbly." There were several waiters and a crowd of people standing around. "Vaya!" said Mike. "Get away. Go on." The waiters moved the people away. "It was quite a thing to watch," Edna said. "He must be a boxer." "He is." "I wish Bill had been here," Edna said. "I'd like to have seen Bill knocked down, too. I've always wanted to see Bill knocked down. He's so big." "I was hoping he would knock down a waiter," Mike said, "and get arrested. I'd like to see Mr. Robert Cohn in jail." "No," I said. "Oh, no," said Edna. "You don't mean that." "I do, though," Mike said. "I'm not one of these chaps likes being knocked about. I never play games, even." Mike took a drink. "I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always the danger of having a horse fall on you. How do you feel, Jake?" "All right." "You're nice," Edna said to Mike. "Are you really a bankrupt?" "I'm a tremendous bankrupt," Mike said. "I owe money to everybody. Don't you owe any money?" "Tons." "I owe everybody money," Mike said. "I borrowed a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night." "The hell you did," I said. "I'll pay it back,"
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Does anyone second this amendment?"
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Comrade Buttons
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speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired
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of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and
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beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end
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and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite
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cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a
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politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore
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tone and with a brief simplicity, he made his next word ring and volley in the vault as if one of the guns had gone off. "Comrades!" he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of his boots, "have we come here for this? Do we live underground like rats in order to listen to talk like this? This is talk we might listen to while eating buns at a Sunday School treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, Be good, and you will be happy,' Honesty is the best policy,' and Virtue is its own reward'? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory's address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure" (hear, hear). "But I am not a curate" (loud cheers), "and I did not listen to it with pleasure" (renewed cheers). "The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday" (hear, hear)." "Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy" (hear, hear). "Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers)." Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness "You damnable hypocrite!" Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity "Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy" (hear, hear). "This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death," and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table. "The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish
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accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy" (hear, hear). "This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.<|quote|>"Does anyone second this amendment?"</|quote|>he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"Shameful!"
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_group
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first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded.
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and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for
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upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO
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answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that
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added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within
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see the lady." "Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take yourself off." "I shall be carried out if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her
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"It'll strike the hour in another quarter," said the man: raising his lantern to her face. "And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more," muttered Nancy: brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street. Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses' heads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like. "The woman is mad!" said the people, turning to look after her as she rushed away. When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared her place of destination, she was alone. It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter's seat was vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs. "Now, young woman!" said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door behind her, "who do you want here?" "A lady who is stopping in this house," answered the girl. "A lady!" was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. "What lady?" "Miss Maylie," said Nancy. The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy repeated her request. "What name am I to say?" asked the waiter. "It's of no use saying any," replied Nancy. "Nor business?" said the man. "No, nor that neither," rejoined the girl. "I must see the lady." "Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take yourself off." "I shall be carried out if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can, I shall indeed. Sit down." "Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is is that door shut?" "Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in case she should require it. "Why?" "Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life and the lives of others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville." "You!" said Rose Maylie. "I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement." "What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her strange companion. "Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and and something worse than all as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed." "I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear you!" "Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?" "No," said Rose. "He knows you," replied the girl; "and
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said the girl violently; "and I can make that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor wretch like me?" This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to interfere. "Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person. "What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will see such as her; do you?" This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel. "Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God Almighty's sake." The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the man who had first appeared undertook its delivery. "What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs. "That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of doors as an impostor." "I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!" "You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer." The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs. "It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid. "Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the second. The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of" "; and the fourth took the first in a quartette of<|quote|>"Shameful!"</|quote|>with which the Dianas concluded. Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired. CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought this interview. But struggling with these better feelings was pride, the vice of the lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself, even this degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very child. She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said: "It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, and not without reason either." "I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you inquired for." The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl completely by surprise, and she burst into tears. "Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, there would there would!" "Sit down," said Rose, earnestly. "If you are in poverty
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Oliver Twist
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"Oh! certainly,"
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Elizabeth
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upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with
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the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you
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forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away.
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set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to
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be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. "You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
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St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat." "Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. "You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance." "Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out." Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. CHAPTER X. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a
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any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?" "No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject." "La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat." "Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. "You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance." "Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out." Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. CHAPTER X. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial. "Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6." "MY DEAR NIECE," "I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know, that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character, to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time
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morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?" "No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject." "La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat." "Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."<|quote|>"Oh! certainly,"</|quote|>said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions." "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry." On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away. But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended. "You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance." "Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out." Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. CHAPTER X. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Yes."
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Don Lavington
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Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't
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was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at
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I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show
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skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how
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the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The
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having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged
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them down, the men spreading out like a pack of dogs, and covering every inch of ground so closely that, unless they escaped from where they were, capture was absolutely certain. As they stood panting there, Ngati caught Don's hand, and tightened it round the spear, following this up by the same action with Jem. "He means we are to hold tight, Jem." "Is he going to take us across this tumbling river, Mas' Don?" "It seems so." "Then I shall hold tight." Before them they could faintly make out the foaming water, and though the distance was not above twenty or thirty yards, the water ran roaring over great stones in so fierce a torrent, that Don felt his heart sink, and shrank from the venture. But on the other side of the torrent was freedom from a death so horrible that the boy shuddered at the thought, and without hesitation he tightened his hold on the spear, and followed the great Maori as he stepped boldly into the rushing stream. It was a new sensation to Don as he moved on with the water over his waist, and pressing so hard against him, that but for the support of the spear-shaft, he must have been swept away. Sturdy even as Jem was, he, too, had a terribly hard task to keep his footing; for his short, broad figure offered a great deal of surface to the swift current, while the rugged stony bed of the river varied in depth at every step. They had a tower of strength, though, in Ngati, who, in spite of the wounds he had received, seemed as vigorous as ever; and though Don twice lost his footing, he clung tightly to the spear, and soon fought his way back to a perpendicular position. But even towers of strength are sometimes undermined and give way. It was so here. They were about half-way across the river, whose white foam gave them sufficient light to enable them to see their way, when, just as Ngati came opposite to a huge block of lava, over which the water poured in tremendous volume, he stepped down into a hole of great depth, and, in spite of his vast strength and efforts to recover himself, he was whirled here and there for a few moments by the power of the fall. Both Don and Jem stood firm, though having hard work to keep their footing, and drew upon the spear-shaft, to which Ngati still held. But all at once there was a sharp jerk, quite sufficient to disturb Don's balance, and the next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the foots was werry treacley when he had a hogshead turned up to look at the bottom first, he allus used to say as all the rest was poor quality." "We're not dealing with sugar now." "No, Mas' Don; this here arn't half so sweet. I wish it was." "Hssh!" came from Ngati again. And for the rest of the night they followed him in silence along ravines, over rugged patches of mountain side, with the great fronds of the tree-ferns brushing their faces, and nocturnal birds rushing away from them as their steps invaded the solitudes where they indulged in their hunt for food. When they encountered a stream, which came foaming and plunging down from the mountain, after carefully trying its depth, Ngati still led the way. Hour after hour they tramped wearily on through the darkness, Ngati rarely speaking, but pausing now and then to help them over some rugged place. Everything in the darkness was wild and strange, and there was an unreality in the journey that appeared dreamlike, the more so that, utterly worn out, Don from time to time tramped on in a state of drowsiness resembling sleep. But all this passed away as the faint light of day gave place to the brilliant glow of the morning sunshine, and Ngati came to a standstill in a ferny gully, down which a tremendous torrent poured with a heavy thunderous sound. And now, as Don and Jem were about to throw themselves down upon a bed of thick moss, Ngati held out his hand in English fashion to Don. "My pakeha," he said softly, "morning." There was something so quaint in his salutation that, in spite of weariness and trouble, Don laughed till he saw the great chiefs countenance cloud. But it cleared at once as Don caught his hand, pressed it warmly, and looked gratefully in his face. "Hah!" cried Ngati, grasping the hand he held with painful energy. "My pakeha, morning. Want eat?" "Yes, yes!" cried Jem, eagerly. "Yes, yes," said Ngati; and then he stood, looking puzzled, as he tried to remember. At last, shaking his head sadly, he said, "No, no," in a helpless, dissatisfied tone. "Want Tomati. Tomati--" He closed his eyes, and laid his head sidewise, to suggest that Tomati was dead, and his countenance, in spite of his grotesque tattooing, wore an aspect of sadness that touched Don. "Tomati dead," he said slowly, and the chiefs eyes brightened. "Dead," he said; "Tomati dead--dead--all--dead." "Yes, poor fellows, all but the prisoners," said Don, speaking slowly, in the hope that the chief might grasp some of his words. But he did not understand a syllable, though he seemed to feel that Don was sympathising with him, and he shook hands again gravely. "My pakeha," he said, pressing Don's hand. Then turning to Jem, he held out his other hand, and said slowly, "Jemmeree. Good boy." "Well, that's very kind of you," said Jem, quietly. "We don't understand one another much,
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next moment Ngati shot along a swift current of water, that ran through a narrow trough-like channel, and Don and Jem followed. Rushing water, a sensation of hot lead in the nostrils, a curious strangling and choking, with the thundering of strange noises in the ears. Next a confused feeling of being knocked about, turned over and beaten down, and then Don felt that he was in swift shallow water amongst stones. He rose to his feet to find, as soon as he could get his breath regularly, that he had still hold of the spear-shaft, and that he had been swept down nearly to the sandy level, over which the river ran before joining the sea. A minute later and he was walking over the soft, dry sand, following Ngati on the further shore, the great chief plodding on in and out among bushes and trees as if nothing had happened. The shouting of those in search was continued, but between them and the enemy the torrent ran, with its waters roaring, thundering, and plashing as they leaped in and out among the rocks toward the sea; and now that they were safely across, Don felt hopeful that the Maoris would look upon the torrent as impassable, and trust to their being still on the same side as the _pah_. As they trudged on, dripping and feeling bruised and sore, Jem found opportunities for a word here and there. "Thought I was going to be drownded after all, Mas' Don," he whispered. "I knocked my head against a rock, and if it wasn't that my skull's made o' the strongest stuff, it would ha' been broken." "You had better not speak much, Jem," said Don softly. "No, my lad; I won't. But what a ducking! All the time we were going across, it ran just as if some one on the left was shoving hard. I didn't know water could push like that." "I expected to be swept away every moment." "I expected as we was going to be drownded, and if I'm to be drownded, I don't want it to be like that. It was such a rough-and-tumble way." Don was silent. "Mas' Don."<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"But, of course, I don't want to be drownded at all." "No, Jem; of course not. I wonder whether they'll follow us across the river." "They'll follow us anywhere, Mas' Don, and catch us if they can. Say, Mas' Don, though, I'm glad we've got old `my pakeha.' He'll show us the way, and help us to get something to eat." "I hope so, Jem." "Say, Mas' Don, think we can trust him?" "Trust him, Jem! Why, of course." "That's all very well, Mas' Don. You're such a trusting chap. See how you used to trust Mike Bannock, and how he turned you over." "Yes; but he was a scoundrel. Ngati is a simple-hearted savage." "Hope he is, Mas' Don; but what I'm feared on is, that he may be a simple-stomached savage." "Why, what do you mean, Jem?" "Only as he may turn hungry some day, as 'tis his nature to." "Of course." "And then, 'spose he has us out in the woods at his mercy like, how then?" "Jem, you're always thinking about cannibals. How can you be so absurd?" "Come, I like that, Mas' Don; arn't I had enough to make me think of 'em?" "Hssh!" The warning came from Ngati; for just then the breeze seemed to sweep the faint roar of the torrent aside, and the shouting of the Maoris came loud and clear. "They're over the river," said Jem excitedly. "Well, I've got a spear in my hand, and I mean to die fighting for the sake of old Bristol and my little wife." CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. IN THE WOODS. "They're not over the river, Jem," said Don, impatiently. "I wish you wouldn't always look on the worst side of everything." "That's what your Uncle Josiah allus does with the sugar, Mas' Don. If the
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Don Lavington
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he asked.
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No speaker
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"Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not."
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rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you
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up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout,
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I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus
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answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It s true you set us on the right track; but you ll own now that it was more
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broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It s true you set us on the right track; but you ll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance." "It was a piece of very simple reasoning." "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here, no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d you think the man died of?" "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorise over," said Holmes, dryly. "No, no. Still, we can t deny that you hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How was the window?" "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill." "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with the matter. That s common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The
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the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It s true you set us on the right track; but you ll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance." "It was a piece of very simple reasoning." "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here, no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d you think the man died of?" "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorise over," said Holmes, dryly. "No, no. Still, we can t deny that you hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How was the window?" "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill." "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with the matter. That s common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How s that?" "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside." "Hum! There s a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto _was_ with his brother; there _was_ a quarrel; so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance is well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him." "You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the man s scalp where you still see the mark; this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into your theory?" "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously. "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus, a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door. "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l esprit!_" "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again. "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is partly open." "It was I who opened it." "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!" "Yes, sir," from the passage.
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at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all," said he. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?"<|quote|>he asked.</|quote|>"No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It s true you set us on the right track; but you ll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance." "It was a piece of very simple reasoning." "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Stake another four thousand."
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Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha
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exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost.
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"You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we
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and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in
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well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers
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answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest
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thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here
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Martha, who were walking behind us, she rapped out: "Why have _you_ attached yourselves to the party? We are not going to take you with us every time. Go home at once." Then, when the servants had pulled hasty bows and departed, she added to me: "You are all the escort I need." At the Casino the Grandmother seemed to be expected, for no time was lost in procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, "my good mother, pray let, let" (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) "let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the Grandmother angrily as she waved him away. "And there are trees there, and we could have tea under them," continued the General now in utter despair. "Nous boirons du lait, sur l herbe fraiche," added De Griers with the snarl almost of a wild beast. "Du lait, de l herbe fraiche" the idyll, the ideal of the Parisian bourgeois his whole outlook upon "la nature et la verit "! "Have done with you and your milk!" cried the old lady. "Go and stuff _yourself_ as much as you like, but my stomach simply recoils from the idea. What are you stopping for? I have nothing to say to you." "Here we are, Madame," I announced. "Here is the moneychanger s office." I entered to get the securities changed, while the Grandmother remained outside in the porch, and the rest waited at a little distance, in doubt as to their best course of action. At length the old lady turned such an angry stare upon them that they departed along the road towards the Casino. The process of changing involved complicated calculations which soon necessitated my return to the Grandmother for instructions. "The thieves!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "Never mind, though. Get the documents cashed No; send the banker out to me," she added as an afterthought. "Would one of the clerks do, Madame?" "Yes, one of the clerks. The thieves!" The clerk consented to come out when he perceived that he was being asked for by an old lady who was too infirm to walk; after which the Grandmother began to upbraid him at length, and with great vehemence, for his alleged usuriousness, and to bargain with him in a mixture of Russian, French, and German I acting as interpreter. Meanwhile, the grave-faced official eyed us both, and silently nodded his head. At the Grandmother, in particular, he gazed with a curiosity which almost bordered upon rudeness. At length, too, he smiled. "Pray recollect yourself!" cried the old lady. "And may my money choke you! Alexis Ivanovitch, tell him that we can easily repair to someone else." "The clerk says that others will give you even less than he." Of what the ultimate calculations consisted I do not
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is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?" The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. "Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me.<|quote|>"Stake another four thousand."</|quote|>I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley
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The Gambler
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"Why, of course, if you want me to,"
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Anne Shirley
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are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do
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say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But
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have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think
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had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into
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learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer,
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of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat." "I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when
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want her, I suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over the idea until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've never brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make a terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm concerned, Matthew, she may stay." Matthew's shy face was a glow of delight. "Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light, Marilla," he said. "She's such an interesting little thing." "It'd be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing," retorted Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn't know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll be time enough to put your oar in." "There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way," said Matthew reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to her as you can without spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you." Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails. "I won't tell her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you'd see the day when you'd be adopting an orphan girl? It's surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers |WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat." "I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back. "I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?" "I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night." "I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. "Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun |FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her
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a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it." CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers |WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly: "Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can't allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven't any use at all for little girls who aren't neat." "I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think about my clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things." "You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here," admonished Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed." "I never say any prayers," announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne."<|quote|>"Why, of course, if you want me to,"</|quote|>assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"Get out, Mike,"
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Don Lavington
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the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man
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lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly
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as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting,
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the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you
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of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old Jemmy! Hen-pecked, that's what's the matter with him." "Let him alone, Mike," said Don quietly. "Right, Mas' Don," said the man; "but if I was you," he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, "I'd strike for
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his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old Jemmy! Hen-pecked, that's what's the matter with him." "Let him alone, Mike," said Don quietly. "Right, Mas' Don," said the man; "but if I was you," he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, "I'd strike for liberty. I knows all about it. When your mother come to live with your uncle she give him all your father's money, and he put it into the business. I know. I used to work here when you first come, only a little un, and a nice little un you was, just after your poor father died." Don's brow wrinkled as he looked searchingly at the man. "You've a right to half there is here, Mas' Don; but the old man's grabbing of it all for his gal, Miss Kitty, and has made your mother and you reg'lar servants." "It is not true, Mike. My uncle has behaved very kindly to my mother and me. He has invested my money, and given me a home when I was left an orphan." "_Kick_!" That is the nearest approach to the sound of Mike's derisive laugh, one which made the lad frown and dart at him an angry look. "Why, who told you that, my lad?" "My mother, over and over again." "Ah, poor thing, for the sake o' peace and quietness. Don't you believe it, my lad. You've been werry kind to me, and begged me on again here when I've
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THE ADVENTURES OF DON LAVINGTON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. FOUR FOLK O' BRISTOL CITY. "Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, 'nother inch, and you'd ha' crushed him like an eggshell." "Well, you told me to lower down." "No, I didn't, stupid." "Yes, you did." "No, I didn't. You're half tipsy, or half asleep, or--" "There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I'm not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That's enough." "No, it arn't enough, Mas' Don. Your uncle said I was to soop'rintend, and a nice row there'd ha' been when he come back if you hadn't had any head left." "Wouldn't have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared." "Nobody would ha' cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha' said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?" "You're right, Mas' Don. Nobody wouldn't ha' cared. You aren't wanted here. Why don't you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun' in furren parts?" "Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris'mas, and no begging won't get you back on again. Fortun' indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "And I arn't a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father's money, and then off you goes like a man to see life." "Now lookye here," cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. "Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas' Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!" "Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down," said LinDon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs. "No, I sha'n't put the bar down, Mas' Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and--what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there's a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old Jemmy! Hen-pecked, that's what's the matter with him." "Let him alone, Mike," said Don quietly. "Right, Mas' Don," said the man; "but if I was you," he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, "I'd strike for liberty. I knows all about it. When your mother come to live with your uncle she give him all your father's money, and he put it into the business. I know. I used to work here when you first come, only a little un, and a nice little un you was, just after your poor father died." Don's brow wrinkled as he looked searchingly at the man. "You've a right to half there is here, Mas' Don; but the old man's grabbing of it all for his gal, Miss Kitty, and has made your mother and you reg'lar servants." "It is not true, Mike. My uncle has behaved very kindly to my mother and me. He has invested my money, and given me a home when I was left an orphan." "_Kick_!" That is the nearest approach to the sound of Mike's derisive laugh, one which made the lad frown and dart at him an angry look. "Why, who told you that, my lad?" "My mother, over and over again." "Ah, poor thing, for the sake o' peace and quietness. Don't you believe it, my lad. You've been werry kind to me, and begged me on again here when I've been 'most starving, and many's the shillin' you've give me, Mas' Don, to buy comforts, or I wouldn't say to you what I does now, and werry welcome a shilling would be to-day, Mas' Don." "I haven't any money, Mike." "Got no money, my lad? What a shame, when half of all this here ought to be yourn. Oh dear, what a cruel thing it seems! I'm very sorry for you, Mas' Don, that I am, 'specially when I think of what a fine dashing young fellow like--" "Don't humbug, Mike." "Nay, not I, my lad; 'tarn't likely. You know it's true enough. You're one of the young fellows as is kep' out of his rights. I know what I'd do if I was you." "What?" "Not be always rubbing my nose again a desk. Go off to one o' them bu'ful foreign countries as I've told you of, where there's gold and silver and dymons, and birds jus' like 'em; and wild beasts to kill, and snakes as long as the main mast. Ah! I've seen some sights in furren abroad, as what I've told you about's like nothing to 'em. Look here, Mas' Don, shall I stop on for an hour and tell you what I've seen in South America?" "No, no, Mike; my uncle doesn't like you to be with me." "Ah, and well I knows it. 'Cause I tells you the truth and he feels guilty, Mas' Don." "And--and it only unsettles me," cried the boy with a despairing look in his eyes. "Get on with your work, and I must get on with mine." "Ah, to be sure," said the scoundrel with a sneer. "Work, work, work. You and me, Mas' Don, is treated worse than the black niggers as cuts the sugar-canes down, and hoes the 'bacco in the plantations. I'm sorry for you." LinDon Lavington thrust his little account book in his breast, and walked hurriedly in the direction taken by the man Jem, entering directly after a low warehouse door, where rows of sugar-hogsheads lay, and there was a murmur and buzz made by the attracted flies. Mike Bannock stood with his hands clasping the handle of the crane winch against which he leaned without moving, but his eyes were hard at work. He followed Don with them till he had disappeared through the low dark doorway, then glanced at the closed
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a 'bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are." Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man's words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall. "Your mother'll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes." "You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble," said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington's life, from the fact of there being no life to write. "You mind your own business, Mike," said Jem, indignantly. "That's what I'm a-doing of, and a-waiting for orders, Mr Jem Wimble. He's hen-pecked, Mas' Don, that what's the matter with him. Been married only three months, and he's hen-pecked. Haw-haw-haw! Poor old cock-bird! Hen-pecked! Haw-haw-haw!" Jem Wimble, general worker in the warehouse and yard of Josiah Christmas, West India merchant, of River Street, Bristol, gave Mike the labourer an angry look, as he turned as red as a blushing girl. "Lookye here," he cried angrily, as Don, who had reseated himself, this time on a hogshead crammed full of compressed tobacco-leaves from Baltimore, swung his legs, and looked on in a half-moody, half-amused way; "the best thing that could happen for Christmas' Ward and for Bristol City, would be for the press-gang to get hold o' you, and take you off to sea." "Haw-haw-haw!" laughed the swarthy, red-faced fellow. "Why don't you give 'em the word, and have me pressed?" "No coming back to be begged on then by Miss Kitty and Mas' Don, after being drunk for a week. You're a bad 'un, that's what you are, Mike Bannock, and I wish the master wouldn't have you here." "Not such a hard nut as you are, Jemmy," said the man with a chuckle. "Sailors won't take me--don't want cripples to go aloft. Lookye here, Mas' Don, there's a leg." As he spoke, the great idle-looking fellow limped slowly, with an exaggerated display of lameness, to and fro past the door of the office.<|quote|>"Get out, Mike,"</|quote|>said Don, as the man stopped. "I believe that's nearly all sham." "That's a true word, Mas' Don," cried Jem. "He's only lame when he thinks about it. And now do please go on totting up, and let's get these casks shifted 'fore your uncle comes back." "Well, I'm waiting, Jem," cried the lad, opening a book he had under his arm, and in which a pencil was shut. "I could put down fifty, while you are moving one." "That's all right, sir; that's all right. I only want to keep things straight, and not have your uncle rowing you when he comes back. Seems to me as life's getting to be one jolly row. What with my Sally at home, and your uncle here, and you always down in the mouth, and Mike not sticking to his work, things is as miserable as mizzar." "He's hen-pecked, that's what he is," chuckled Mike, going to the handle of the crane. "Poor old Jemmy! Hen-pecked, that's what's the matter with him." "Let him alone, Mike," said Don quietly. "Right, Mas' Don," said the man; "but if I was you," he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, "I'd strike for liberty. I knows all about it. When your mother come to live with your uncle she give him all your father's money, and he put it into the business. I know. I used to work here when you first come, only a little un, and a nice little un you was, just after your poor father died." Don's brow wrinkled as he looked searchingly at the man. "You've a right to half there is here, Mas' Don; but the old man's grabbing of it all for his gal, Miss Kitty, and has made your mother and you reg'lar servants." "It is not true, Mike. My uncle has behaved very kindly to my mother and me. He has invested my money, and given me a home when I was left an orphan." "_Kick_!" That is the nearest approach to the sound of Mike's derisive laugh, one which made the lad frown and dart at him an angry look. "Why, who told you that, my lad?" "My mother, over and over again." "Ah, poor thing, for the sake o' peace and quietness. Don't you believe it, my lad. You've been werry kind to me, and begged me on again here when I've been 'most starving, and many's the shillin' you've give me, Mas' Don, to buy comforts, or I wouldn't say to you what I does now, and werry welcome a shilling would be to-day, Mas' Don." "I haven't any money, Mike." "Got no money, my lad? What a shame, when half of all this here ought to be yourn. Oh dear, what a cruel thing it seems! I'm very sorry for you, Mas' Don, that I am, 'specially when I think of what a fine dashing young fellow like--" "Don't humbug, Mike." "Nay, not I, my lad; 'tarn't likely. You know it's true enough. You're one of the young fellows as is kep' out
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Don Lavington
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added the Hatter,
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No speaker
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"And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again
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"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon
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they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always
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to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to
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exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to
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in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got
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the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, "It was the _best_ butter, you know." Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. "What a funny watch!" she remarked. "It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!" "Why should it?" muttered the Hatter. "Does _your_ watch tell you what year it is?" "Of course not," Alice replied very readily: "but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together." "Which is just the case with _mine_," said the Hatter. Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. "I don't quite understand you," she said, as politely as she could. "The Dormouse is asleep again," said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, "Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself." "Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. "No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter. "Nor I," said the March Hare. Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers." "If you knew Time as well as I do," said the Hatter, "you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. It's _him_." "I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up 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
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"I don't know what you mean," said Alice. "Of course you don't!" the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. "I dare say you never even spoke to Time!" "Perhaps not," Alice cautiously replied: "but I know I have to beat time when I learn music." "Ah! that accounts for it," said the Hatter. "He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!" (" "I only wish it was," the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) "That would be grand, certainly," said Alice thoughtfully: "but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know." "Not at first, perhaps," said the Hatter: "but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked." "Is that the way _you_ manage?" Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. "Not I!" he replied. "We quarrelled last March--just before _he_ went mad, you know--" (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) "--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing" 'Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!' "You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued, "in this way:--" 'Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--'" Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep "_Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_--" and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. "Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse," said the Hatter, "when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, 'He's murdering the time! Off with his head!'" "How dreadfully savage!" exclaimed Alice. "And ever since that," the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, "he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now." A bright idea came into Alice's head. "Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?" she asked. "Yes, that's it," said the Hatter with a sigh: "it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles." "Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" said Alice. "Exactly so," said the Hatter: "as the things get used up." "But what happens when you come to the beginning again?" Alice ventured to ask. "Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning. "I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story." "I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. "Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried. "Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. "I wasn't asleep," he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: "I heard every word you fellows were saying." "Tell us a story!" said the March Hare. "Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice. "And be quick about it,"<|quote|>added the Hatter,</|quote|>"or you'll be asleep again before it's done." "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"I believe in the race,"
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Duchess Of Monmouth
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Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the
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as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It
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are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define
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inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray.
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I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by
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one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does
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in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would
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or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head.<|quote|>"I believe in the race,"</|quote|>she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."
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Mr. Knightley
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a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look
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him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having
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Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of
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did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was
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happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or
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for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and
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then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--" "Well!" "--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--" "Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her
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know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,<|quote|>"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."</|quote|>He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert
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Emma
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Bill said.
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No speaker
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drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it
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We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about
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your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple
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'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?"
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the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to
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me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day
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weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: "Jake, Budapest is wonderful." Then I got a wire: "Back on Monday." Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him; he waved and started up-stairs carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags. "Well," I said, "I hear you had a wonderful trip." "Wonderful," he said. "Budapest is absolutely wonderful." "How about Vienna?" "Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was." "How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon. "Tight, Jake. I was tight." "That's strange. Better have a drink." Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened." "Last long?" "Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days." "Where did you go?" "Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly." "Do anything else?" "Not so sure. Possible." "Go on. Tell me about it." "Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and
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remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on." "Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." "We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink,"<|quote|>Bill said.</|quote|>"You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas
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The Sun Also Rises
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The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.
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No speaker
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to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with
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catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's
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his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back
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place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand
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them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt
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nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare
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the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE. "Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?" said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay. For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another. Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun. He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him. Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns. Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below. He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner. Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze. He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking. Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone--quite a whisper of a whistle--a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times. This
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time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.<|quote|>The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.</|quote|>"How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow. Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder. Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati's hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief. Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain. If it was true, what would happen at the little farm? He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house. "Ngati," he said excitedly, "danger!" The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes. He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit. "Ngati!" he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, "pakehas--bad pakehas." The chief could understand pakehas--white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt. "Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem," panted Don. Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend's health, and he laid his hand upon Don's burning brow. "Bad pakehas--go!" cried Don. "What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!" At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm. "He'll bring some one who can understand," said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and
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Don Lavington
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asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.
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No speaker
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"This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about
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door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The
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are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He
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shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who s there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. "He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake !" "Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It s that," he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men. Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said
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"Who s coming? What s the row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American closed the other door. "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in somewhere. I tell you he s after me. I give him the slip. He said he d kill me and he will." "_You re_ safe," said the man with the black beard. "The door s shut. What s it all about?" "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who s there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. "He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake !" "Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It s that," he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men. Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. "Once we open, in he comes. There s no stopping him." "Don t you be in too much hurry about that door," said the anaemic cabman, anxiously. "Draw the bolts," said the man with the black beard, "and if he comes" He showed a revolver in his hand. "That won t do," said the policeman; "that s murder." "I know what country I m in," said the man with the beard. "I m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts." "Not with that blinking thing going off behind me," said
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Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and in a moment had seized the town. "The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!" CHAPTER XVI. IN THE "JOLLY CRICKETERS" The "Jolly Cricketers" is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in American with a policeman off duty. "What s the shouting about!" said the anaemic cabman, going off at a tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. "Fire, perhaps," said the barman. Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap. "Coming!" he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. "He s coming. The Visible Man! After me! For Gawd s sake! Elp! Elp! Elp!" "Shut the doors," said the policeman. "Who s coming? What s the row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American closed the other door. "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in somewhere. I tell you he s after me. I give him the slip. He said he d kill me and he will." "_You re_ safe," said the man with the black beard. "The door s shut. What s it all about?" "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who s there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. "He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake !" "Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It s that," he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men. Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. "Once we open, in he comes. There s no stopping him." "Don t you be in too much hurry about that door," said the anaemic cabman, anxiously. "Draw the bolts," said the man with the black beard, "and if he comes" He showed a revolver in his hand. "That won t do," said the policeman; "that s murder." "I know what country I m in," said the man with the beard. "I m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts." "Not with that blinking thing going off behind me," said the barman, craning over the blind. "Very well," said the man with the black beard, and stooping down, revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced about. "Come in," said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information. "Are all the doors of the house shut?" asked Marvel. "He s going round prowling round. He s as artful as the devil." "Good Lord!" said the burly barman. "There s the back! Just watch them doors! I say !" He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn. "There s the yard door and the private door. The yard door" He rushed out of the bar. In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand. "The yard door was open!" he said, and his fat underlip dropped. "He may be in the house now!" said the first cabman. "He s not in the kitchen," said
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little man, and he wore a high hat, and he was running so fast that his legs verily twinkled. "Another of those fools," said Dr. Kemp. "Like that ass who ran into me this morning round a corner, with the" Visible Man a-coming, sir! "I can t imagine what possesses people. One might think we were in the thirteenth century." He got up, went to the window, and stared at the dusky hillside, and the dark little figure tearing down it. "He seems in a confounded hurry," said Dr. Kemp, "but he doesn t seem to be getting on. If his pockets were full of lead, he couldn t run heavier." "Spurted, sir," said Dr. Kemp. In another moment the higher of the villas that had clambered up the hill from Burdock had occulted the running figure. He was visible again for a moment, and again, and then again, three times between the three detached houses that came next, and then the terrace hid him. "Asses!" said Dr. Kemp, swinging round on his heel and walking back to his writing-table. But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject terror on his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway, did not share in the doctor s contempt. By the man pounded, and as he ran he chinked like a well-filled purse that is tossed to and fro. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but his dilated eyes stared straight downhill to where the lamps were being lit, and the people were crowded in the street. And his ill-shaped mouth fell apart, and a glairy foam lay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse and noisy. All he passed stopped and began staring up the road and down, and interrogating one another with an inkling of discomfort for the reason of his haste. And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped and ran under a gate, and as they still wondered something a wind a pad, pad, pad, a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by. People screamed. People sprang off the pavement: It passed in shouts, it passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in the street before Marvel was halfway there. They were bolting into houses and slamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard it and made one last desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and in a moment had seized the town. "The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!" CHAPTER XVI. IN THE "JOLLY CRICKETERS" The "Jolly Cricketers" is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in American with a policeman off duty. "What s the shouting about!" said the anaemic cabman, going off at a tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. "Fire, perhaps," said the barman. Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap. "Coming!" he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. "He s coming. The Visible Man! After me! For Gawd s sake! Elp! Elp! Elp!" "Shut the doors," said the policeman. "Who s coming? What s the row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American closed the other door. "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in somewhere. I tell you he s after me. I give him the slip. He said he d kill me and he will." "_You re_ safe," said the man with the black beard. "The door s shut. What s it all about?" "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who s there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. "He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake !" "Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It s that," he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men. Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. "Once we open, in he comes. There s no stopping him." "Don t you be in too much hurry about that door," said the anaemic cabman, anxiously. "Draw the bolts," said the man with the black beard, "and if he comes" He showed a revolver in his hand. "That won t do," said the policeman; "that s murder." "I know what country I m in," said the man with the beard. "I m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts." "Not with that blinking thing going off behind me," said the barman, craning over the blind. "Very well," said the man with the black beard, and stooping down, revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced about. "Come in," said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information. "Are all the doors of the house shut?" asked Marvel. "He s going round prowling round. He s as artful as the devil." "Good Lord!" said the burly barman. "There s the back! Just watch them doors! I say !" He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn. "There s the yard door and the private door. The yard door" He rushed out of the bar. In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand. "The yard door was open!" he said, and his fat underlip dropped. "He may be in the house now!" said the first cabman. "He s not in the kitchen," said the barman. "There s two women there, and I ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer. And they don t think he s come in. They haven t noticed" "Have you fastened it?" asked the first cabman. "I m out of frocks," said the barman. The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so the flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar-parlour door burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue. The bearded man s revolver cracked and the looking-glass at the back of the parlour starred and came smashing and tinkling down. As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. The door flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was dragged into the kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans. Marvel, head down, and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the bolts were drawn. Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in, followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back. The door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment behind it. Then the cabman collared something. "I got him," said the cabman. The barman s red hands came clawing at the unseen. "Here he is!" said the barman. Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible Man was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the policeman trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and his fists flew round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked under the diaphragm. The door into the bar-parlour from the kitchen slammed and covered Mr. Marvel s retreat. The men in the kitchen found themselves clutching at and struggling with empty air. "Where s he gone?" cried the man with the beard. "Out?" "This way," said the policeman,
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dog playing in the road yelped and ran under a gate, and as they still wondered something a wind a pad, pad, pad, a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by. People screamed. People sprang off the pavement: It passed in shouts, it passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in the street before Marvel was halfway there. They were bolting into houses and slamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard it and made one last desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and in a moment had seized the town. "The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!" CHAPTER XVI. IN THE "JOLLY CRICKETERS" The "Jolly Cricketers" is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in American with a policeman off duty. "What s the shouting about!" said the anaemic cabman, going off at a tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. "Fire, perhaps," said the barman. Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap. "Coming!" he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. "He s coming. The Visible Man! After me! For Gawd s sake! Elp! Elp! Elp!" "Shut the doors," said the policeman. "Who s coming? What s the row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American closed the other door. "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in somewhere. I tell you he s after me. I give him the slip. He said he d kill me and he will." "_You re_ safe," said the man with the black beard. "The door s shut. What s it all about?" "Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who s there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. "He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake !" "Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the flap of the bar. Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated. "Don t open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don t open the door. _Where_ shall I hide?" "This, this Invisible Man, then?"<|quote|>asked the man with the black beard, with one hand behind him.</|quote|>"I guess it s about time we saw him." The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It s that," he said. The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men. Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. "Once we open, in he comes. There s no stopping him." "Don t you be in too much hurry about that door," said the anaemic cabman, anxiously. "Draw the bolts," said the man with the black beard, "and if he comes" He showed a revolver in his hand. "That won t do," said the policeman; "that s murder." "I know what country I m in," said the man with the beard. "I m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts." "Not with that blinking thing going off behind me," said the barman, craning over the blind. "Very well," said the man with the black beard, and stooping down, revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced about. "Come in," said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information. "Are all the doors of the house shut?" asked Marvel. "He s
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The Invisible Man
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He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.
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No speaker
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that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I
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husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You
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them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and
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her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views
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arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know
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"That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?" "No." "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally." "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?" "Exactly." "And you have known this all along?" "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour
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who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?" "No." "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally." "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?" "Exactly." "And you have known this all along?" "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way." "And yet you say he may be acquitted?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case." "What?" "No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him." "I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I protested. "Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all" he smiled broadly "it will probably be as a witness for the defence." I could hardly believe my ears. "It is quite _en r gle_," continued Poirot. "Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution." "Which one?" "The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will." Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial. September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party. I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually. As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted? On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded
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Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."<|quote|>He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.</|quote|>"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?" "No." "Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally." "So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?" "Exactly." "And you have known this all along?" "Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way." "And yet you say he may be acquitted?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case." "What?" "No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him." "I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I protested. "Not at all. We have to deal
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"It's too early."
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Jake Barnes
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of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and
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on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said.
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Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from
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stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I
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to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going
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and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said.
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noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps." Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. "I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't mean anything." "I know." "Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I'm so sick of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael's been lovely, too." "It's been damned hard on Mike." "Yes. But he didn't need to be a swine." "Everybody behaves badly," I said. "Give them the proper chance." "You wouldn't behave badly." Brett looked at me. "I'd be as big an ass as Cohn," I said. "Darling, don't let's talk a lot of rot." "All right. Talk about anything you like." "Don't be difficult. You're the only person I've got, and I feel rather awful to-night." "You've got Mike." "Yes, Mike. Hasn't he been pretty?" "Well," I said, "it's been damned hard on Mike, having Cohn around and seeing him with you." "Don't I know it, darling? Please don't make me feel any worse than I do." Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at the wall. "Want to go for a walk?" "Yes. Come on." I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the bartender. "Let's have one more drink of that," Brett said. "My nerves are rotten." We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado brandy. "Come on," said Brett. As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from under the arcade. "He _was_ there," Brett said. "He can't be away from you." "Poor devil!" "I'm not sorry for him. I hate him, myself." "I hate him, too," she shivered. "I hate his damned suffering." We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet street, and sudden bursts of music. "Want to go in?" "No." We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black
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The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said.<|quote|>"It's too early."</|quote|>"Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike said, "They come to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish fiesta." "I'll festa them," Bill said. "You're an extraordinarily beautiful girl." Mike turned to Bill's friend. "When did you come here?" "Come off it, Michael." "I say, she _is_ a lovely girl. Where have I been? Where have I been looking all this while? You're a lovely thing. _Have_ we met? Come along with me and Bill. We're going to festa the English." "I'll festa them," Bill said, "What the hell are they doing at this fiesta?" "Come on," Mike said. "Just us three. We're going to festa the bloody English. I hope you're not English? I'm Scotch. I hate the English. I'm going to festa them. Come on, Bill." Through the window we saw them, all three arm in arm, going toward the caf . Rockets were going up in the square. "I'm going to sit here," Brett said. "I'll stay with you," Cohn said. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. "For God's sake, go off somewhere. Can't you see Jake and I want to talk?" "I didn't," Cohn said. "I thought I'd sit here because I felt a little tight." "What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If you're tight, go to bed. Go on to bed." "Was I rude enough to him?" Brett asked. Cohn was gone. "My God! I'm so sick of him!" "He doesn't add much to the gayety." "He depresses me so." "He's behaved very badly." "Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well." "He's probably waiting just outside the door now." "Yes. He would. You know I do know how he feels. He can't believe it didn't
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The Sun Also Rises
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he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.
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No speaker
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be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not
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pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that
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from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you
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Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police.
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of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break
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I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been
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applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor." He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment. "I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme," he continued casually. "I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be." He looked down for a moment modestly. "It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday." "My dear fellow." said Syme heartily, "I congratulate you. A great career!" Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly. "As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table," he said, "and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible." Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings. "Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I suppose we'd better give you a seat in the meeting?" "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence, "I think you'd better." When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it. He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches. "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair." This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat. "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died
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to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak. "I have only to get the form of election finished," continued Gregory with animation, "then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then then oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!" And he clasped his hands. Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation. "Why is it," he asked vaguely, "that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?" He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, "Is it because you are such an ass?" There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out "Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?" "A promise?" asked Gregory, wondering. "Yes," said Syme very seriously, "a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?" "Your secret?" asked the staring Gregory. "Have you got a secret?" "Yes," said Syme, "I have a secret." Then after a pause, "Will you swear?" Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly "You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes." Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers' pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators. "Well," said Syme slowly, "I don't know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard." Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice. "What do you say?" he asked in an inhuman voice. "Yes," said Syme simply, "I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming." From the doorway there came a murmur of "Mr. Joseph Chamberlain." It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY Before one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand. "Don't be such a silly man,"<|quote|>he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate.</|quote|>"Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick." Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question. "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tell the police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely." Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster. "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever." "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you break yours. Here are your friends." The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand. "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?" Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate." The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion. "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply. "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should call it at the very least a root." "What do you mean?" "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday." The little man dropped one of his papers, and
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"Well,"
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Catherine Morland
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as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments
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her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able
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To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak
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expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing
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"It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it,
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"No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by
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it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable." "And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" "Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella s behaviour in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. Her tenderness for her friend seemed rather the first feeling of her heart; but that at such a moment was allowable; and once she gave her lover a flat contradiction, and once she drew back her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry s instructions, and placed it all to judicious affection. The embraces, tears, and promises of the parting fair ones may be fancied. CHAPTER 20 Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to Pulteney Street. Miss Tilney s manners and Henry s smile soon did away some of her unpleasant feelings; but still she was far from being at ease; nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself entirely reassure her. Nay, perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she might not have felt less, had she been less attended to. His anxiety for her comfort his continual solicitations that she would eat, and his often-expressed fears of her seeing nothing to her taste though never in her life before had she beheld half such variety on a breakfast-table made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She felt utterly unworthy of such respect, and knew not how to reply to it. Her tranquillity was not improved by the general s impatience for the
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to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during
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Northanger Abbey
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Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.
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No speaker
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door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own
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Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her
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open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was
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grand gift thrown in.” “We quite swagger,” he gravely observed-- “though even swaggering would after this be dull without you.” “Oh, I’ll _swagger_ with you!” she cried as if it quite settled and made up for everything; and then impatiently, as she beheld Lord John, whom the door had burst open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was quickly about to follow, but she checked him with an authority she had never before used and which was clearly the next moment to prove irresistible. “Lord John, be so good as to stop.” Looking about at the condition of a room on the point of receiving so august a
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_her_, we should have seen, to be satisfied with his expression; and, with our more informed observation of all it was a question of her giving up, she would have struck us as subtly bargaining. He gallantly amplified. “It would peculiarly--by which I mean it would so naturally--unite us!” Well, that was all she wanted. “Then for a complete union with you--of fact as well as of fond fancy!” she smiled-- “there’s nothing, even to my one ewe lamb, I’m not ready to surrender.” “Ah, we don’t surrender,” he urged-- “we enjoy!” “Yes,” she understood: “with the glory of our grand gift thrown in.” “We quite swagger,” he gravely observed-- “though even swaggering would after this be dull without you.” “Oh, I’ll _swagger_ with you!” she cried as if it quite settled and made up for everything; and then impatiently, as she beheld Lord John, whom the door had burst open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was quickly about to follow, but she checked him with an authority she had never before used and which was clearly the next moment to prove irresistible. “Lord John, be so good as to stop.” Looking about at the condition of a room on the point of receiving so august a character, she observed on the floor the fragments of the torn cheque, to which she sharply pointed. “And please pick up that litter!” THE END.
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_add_ his great signature.” “The devil he will!” --and Lord Theign, with the highest spirit, tore the crisp token into several pieces, which fluttered, as worthless now as pure snowflakes, to the floor. “Ay, ay, ay!” --it drew from her a wail of which the character, for its sharp inconsequence, was yet comic. This renewed his stare at her. “Do _you_ want to back out? I mean from your noble stand.” As quickly, however, she had saved herself. “I’d rather do even what you’re doing--offer my treasure to the Thingumbob!” He was touched by this even to sympathy. “Will you then _join_ me in setting the example of a great donation------?” “To the What-do-you-call-it?” she extravagantly smiled. “I call it,” he said with dignity, “the ‘National Gallery.’” She closed her eyes as with a failure of breath. “Ah my dear friend--!” “It would convince me,” he went on, insistent and persuasive. “Of the sincerity of my affection?” --she drew nearer to him. “It would comfort me” --he was satisfied with his own expression. Yet in a moment, when she had come all rustlingly and fragrantly close, “It would captivate me,” he handsomely added. “It would captivate you?” It was for _her_, we should have seen, to be satisfied with his expression; and, with our more informed observation of all it was a question of her giving up, she would have struck us as subtly bargaining. He gallantly amplified. “It would peculiarly--by which I mean it would so naturally--unite us!” Well, that was all she wanted. “Then for a complete union with you--of fact as well as of fond fancy!” she smiled-- “there’s nothing, even to my one ewe lamb, I’m not ready to surrender.” “Ah, we don’t surrender,” he urged-- “we enjoy!” “Yes,” she understood: “with the glory of our grand gift thrown in.” “We quite swagger,” he gravely observed-- “though even swaggering would after this be dull without you.” “Oh, I’ll _swagger_ with you!” she cried as if it quite settled and made up for everything; and then impatiently, as she beheld Lord John, whom the door had burst open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was quickly about to follow, but she checked him with an authority she had never before used and which was clearly the next moment to prove irresistible. “Lord John, be so good as to stop.” Looking about at the condition of a room on the point of receiving so august a character, she observed on the floor the fragments of the torn cheque, to which she sharply pointed. “And please pick up that litter!” THE END.
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let it sound out. “Which I found there at your desk a moment ago, and thought best, in your interest, to rescue from accident or neglect; even though it be, save for the single stroke of a name begun,” he wound up with his look like a playing searchlight, “unhappily unsigned.” “Unsigned?” --the exhibition of her design, of her defeat, kept shaking her. “Then it isn’t good--?” “It’s a Barmecide feast, my dear!” --he had still, her kind friend, his note of grimness and also his penetration of eye. “But who is it writes you colossal cheques?” “And then leaves them lying about?” Her case was so bad that you would have seen how she felt she must _do_ something--something quite splendid. She recovered herself, she faced the situation with all her bright bravery of expression and aspect; conscious, you might have guessed, that she had never more strikingly embodied, on such lines, the elegant, the beautiful and the true. “Why, who can it have been but poor Breckenridge too?” “‘Breckenridge’--?” Lord Theign had _his_ smart echoes. “What in the world does he owe you money for?” It took her but an instant more--she performed the great repudiation quite as she might be prepared to sweep, in the Presence impending, her grandest curtsey. “_Not_, you sweet suspicious thing, for my great-grandmother!” And then as his glare didn’t fade: “Bender makes my life a burden--for the love of my precious Lawrence.” “Which you’re weakly letting him grab?” --nothing could have been finer with this than Lord Theign’s reprobation unless it had been his surprise. She shook her head as in bland compassion for such an idea. “It isn’t a payment, you goose--it’s a bribe! I’ve withstood him, these trying weeks, as a rock the tempest; but he wrote that and left it there, the fiend, to tempt me--to corrupt me!” “Without putting his name?” --her companion again turned over the cheque. She bethought herself, clearly with all her genius, as to this anomaly, and the light of reality broke. “He must have been interrupted in the artful act--he sprang up with such a bound at Mr. Crimble’s news. At once then--for his interest in it--he hurried off, leaving the cheque forgotten and unfinished.” She smiled more intensely, her eyes attached, as from fascination, to the morsel of paper still handled by her friend. “But of course on his next visit he’ll _add_ his great signature.” “The devil he will!” --and Lord Theign, with the highest spirit, tore the crisp token into several pieces, which fluttered, as worthless now as pure snowflakes, to the floor. “Ay, ay, ay!” --it drew from her a wail of which the character, for its sharp inconsequence, was yet comic. This renewed his stare at her. “Do _you_ want to back out? I mean from your noble stand.” As quickly, however, she had saved herself. “I’d rather do even what you’re doing--offer my treasure to the Thingumbob!” He was touched by this even to sympathy. “Will you then _join_ me in setting the example of a great donation------?” “To the What-do-you-call-it?” she extravagantly smiled. “I call it,” he said with dignity, “the ‘National Gallery.’” She closed her eyes as with a failure of breath. “Ah my dear friend--!” “It would convince me,” he went on, insistent and persuasive. “Of the sincerity of my affection?” --she drew nearer to him. “It would comfort me” --he was satisfied with his own expression. Yet in a moment, when she had come all rustlingly and fragrantly close, “It would captivate me,” he handsomely added. “It would captivate you?” It was for _her_, we should have seen, to be satisfied with his expression; and, with our more informed observation of all it was a question of her giving up, she would have struck us as subtly bargaining. He gallantly amplified. “It would peculiarly--by which I mean it would so naturally--unite us!” Well, that was all she wanted. “Then for a complete union with you--of fact as well as of fond fancy!” she smiled-- “there’s nothing, even to my one ewe lamb, I’m not ready to surrender.” “Ah, we don’t surrender,” he urged-- “we enjoy!” “Yes,” she understood: “with the glory of our grand gift thrown in.” “We quite swagger,” he gravely observed-- “though even swaggering would after this be dull without you.” “Oh, I’ll _swagger_ with you!” she cried as if it quite settled and made up for everything; and then impatiently, as she beheld Lord John, whom the door had burst open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was quickly about to follow, but she checked him with an authority she had never before used and which was clearly the next moment to prove irresistible. “Lord John, be so good as to stop.” Looking about at the condition of a room on the point of receiving so august a character, she observed on the floor the fragments of the torn cheque, to which she sharply pointed. “And please pick up that litter!” THE END.
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for such an idea. “It isn’t a payment, you goose--it’s a bribe! I’ve withstood him, these trying weeks, as a rock the tempest; but he wrote that and left it there, the fiend, to tempt me--to corrupt me!” “Without putting his name?” --her companion again turned over the cheque. She bethought herself, clearly with all her genius, as to this anomaly, and the light of reality broke. “He must have been interrupted in the artful act--he sprang up with such a bound at Mr. Crimble’s news. At once then--for his interest in it--he hurried off, leaving the cheque forgotten and unfinished.” She smiled more intensely, her eyes attached, as from fascination, to the morsel of paper still handled by her friend. “But of course on his next visit he’ll _add_ his great signature.” “The devil he will!” --and Lord Theign, with the highest spirit, tore the crisp token into several pieces, which fluttered, as worthless now as pure snowflakes, to the floor. “Ay, ay, ay!” --it drew from her a wail of which the character, for its sharp inconsequence, was yet comic. This renewed his stare at her. “Do _you_ want to back out? I mean from your noble stand.” As quickly, however, she had saved herself. “I’d rather do even what you’re doing--offer my treasure to the Thingumbob!” He was touched by this even to sympathy. “Will you then _join_ me in setting the example of a great donation------?” “To the What-do-you-call-it?” she extravagantly smiled. “I call it,” he said with dignity, “the ‘National Gallery.’” She closed her eyes as with a failure of breath. “Ah my dear friend--!” “It would convince me,” he went on, insistent and persuasive. “Of the sincerity of my affection?” --she drew nearer to him. “It would comfort me” --he was satisfied with his own expression. Yet in a moment, when she had come all rustlingly and fragrantly close, “It would captivate me,” he handsomely added. “It would captivate you?” It was for _her_, we should have seen, to be satisfied with his expression; and, with our more informed observation of all it was a question of her giving up, she would have struck us as subtly bargaining. He gallantly amplified. “It would peculiarly--by which I mean it would so naturally--unite us!” Well, that was all she wanted. “Then for a complete union with you--of fact as well as of fond fancy!” she smiled-- “there’s nothing, even to my one ewe lamb, I’m not ready to surrender.” “Ah, we don’t surrender,” he urged-- “we enjoy!” “Yes,” she understood: “with the glory of our grand gift thrown in.” “We quite swagger,” he gravely observed-- “though even swaggering would after this be dull without you.” “Oh, I’ll _swagger_ with you!” she cried as if it quite settled and made up for everything; and then impatiently, as she beheld Lord John, whom the door had burst open to admit: “The Prince?” “The Prince!” --the young man launched it as a call to arms. They had fallen apart on the irruption, the pair discovered, but she flashed straight at her lover: “Then we can swagger now!” Lord Theign had reached the open door. “I meet him below.”<|quote|>Demurring, debating, however, she stayed him a moment.</|quote|>“But oughtn’t I--in my own house?” His lordship caught her meaning. “You mean he may think--?” But he as easily pronounced. “He shall think the Truth!” And with a kiss of his hand to her he was gone. Lord John, who had gazed in some wonder at these demonstrations, was quickly about to follow, but she checked him with an authority she had never before used and which was clearly the next moment to prove irresistible. “Lord John, be so good as to stop.” Looking about at the condition of a room on the point of receiving so august a character, she observed on the floor the fragments of the torn cheque, to which she sharply pointed. “And please pick up that litter!” THE END.
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The Outcry
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rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.
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No speaker
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not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing,
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"Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping.
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so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished,
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each other. It may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!" "Now," he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England,
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give you to know him by. Stay though," she added. "Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is" "A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?" cried the gentleman. "How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!" The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. "I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking silence. "I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!" "Now," he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at
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recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection. "He is tall," said the girl, "and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don't forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man's, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can't be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds why did you start?" said the girl, stopping suddenly. The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed. "Part of this," said the girl, "I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Stay though," she added. "Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is" "A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?" cried the gentleman. "How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!" The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. "I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking silence. "I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!" "Now," he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!" "She will be persuaded now," cried the young lady. "She hesitates, I am sure." "I fear not, my dear," said the gentleman. "No sir, I do not," replied the girl, after a short struggle. "I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back, and yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But," she said, looking hastily round, "this fear comes over me again. I must go home." "Home!" repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word. "Home, lady," rejoined the girl. "To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone." "It is useless," said the gentleman, with a sigh. "We compromise
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stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I'll not turn upon them, who might any of them have turned upon me, but didn't, bad as they are." "Then," said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aiming to attain; "put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with." "What if he turns against the others?" "I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver's little history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free." "And if it is not?" suggested the girl. "Then," pursued the gentleman, "this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it." "Have I the lady's promise for that?" asked the girl. "You have," replied Rose. "My true and faithful pledge." "Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?" said the girl, after a short pause. "Never," replied the gentleman. "The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him, that he could never even guess." "I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child," said the girl after another interval of silence, "but I will take your words." After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection. "He is tall," said the girl, "and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don't forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man's, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; and, although he can't be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds why did you start?" said the girl, stopping suddenly. The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed. "Part of this," said the girl, "I have drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Stay though," she added. "Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is" "A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?" cried the gentleman. "How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!" The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. "I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking silence. "I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!" "Now," he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!" "She will be persuaded now," cried the young lady. "She hesitates, I am sure." "I fear not, my dear," said the gentleman. "No sir, I do not," replied the girl, after a short struggle. "I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back, and yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But," she said, looking hastily round, "this fear comes over me again. I must go home." "Home!" repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word. "Home, lady," rejoined the girl. "To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone." "It is useless," said the gentleman, with a sigh. "We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already." "Yes, yes," urged the girl. "You have." "What," cried the young lady, "can be the end of this poor creature's life!" "What!" repeated the girl. "Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at last." "Do not speak thus, pray," returned the young lady, sobbing. "It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors should!" replied the girl. "Good-night, good-night!" The gentleman turned away. "This purse," cried the young lady. "Take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble." "No!" replied the girl. "I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet give me something that you have worn: I should like to have something no, no, not a ring your gloves or handkerchief anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!" The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. "Hark!" cried the young lady, listening. "Did she call! I thought I heard her voice." "No, my love," replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. "She has not moved, and will not till we are gone." Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances round him, that he was
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have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Stay though," she added. "Upon his throat: so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face: there is" "A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?" cried the gentleman. "How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!" The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. "I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking silence. "I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same." As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!" "Now," he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where he had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?" "Nothing," replied Nancy. "You will not persist in saying that,"<|quote|>rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart.</|quote|>"Think now. Tell me." "Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed." "You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!" "She will be persuaded now," cried the young lady. "She hesitates, I am sure." "I fear not, my dear," said the gentleman. "No sir, I do not," replied the girl, after a short struggle. "I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back, and yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But," she said, looking hastily round, "this fear comes over me again. I must go home." "Home!" repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word. "Home, lady," rejoined the girl. "To such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you leave me, and let me go my way alone." "It is useless," said the gentleman, with a sigh. "We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already." "Yes, yes," urged the girl. "You have." "What," cried the young lady, "can be the end
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Oliver Twist
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“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”
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Crimble
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through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his
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authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over
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“That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of
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where his very first apprehension of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected--well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.” She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!” She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.” “Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though
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“That I have is what has driven me straight _at_ you again--since I’ve shown you before how I turn to you at a crisis. He has come as I hoped and like a regular good ‘un,” Hugh was able to state; “I’ve just met him at the station, but I pick him up again, at his hotel in Clifford Street, at five. He stopped, on his way from Dover this morning, to my extreme exasperation, to ‘sample’ Canterbury, and I leave him to a bath and a change and tea. Then swooping down I whirl him round to Bond Street, where his very first apprehension of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected--well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.” She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!” She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.” “Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though he doesn’t know, you see, of Bardi’s being at hand.” “Still,” said the girl, always all lucid for the case, “if the ‘flash-light’ does presently break----!” “It will first take him in the eye?” Hugh had jumped to her idea, but he adopted it only to provide: “It might if he didn’t now wear goggles, so to say!--clapped on him too hard by Pappendick’s so damnably perverse opinion.” With which, however, he quickly bethought himself. “Ah, of course, these wretched days, you haven’t known of Pappendick’s personal visit. After that wire from Verona I wired him back defiance--” “And that
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a dread. “Of what suspense do you speak? Your still being without the other opinion--?” “Ah, that worries me, yes; and all the more, at this hour, as I say, that--” He dropped it, however: “I’ll tell you in a moment! My _real_ torment, all the while, has been not to know, from day to day, what situation, what complication that last scene of ours with your father here has let you in for; and yet at the same time--having no sign nor sound from you!--to see the importance of not making anything possibly worse by approaching you again, however discreetly. I’ve been in the dark,” he pursued, “and feeling that I must leave _you_ there; so that now--just brutally turning up once more under personal need and at any cost--I don’t know whether I most want or most fear what I may learn from you.” Lady Grace, listening and watching, appeared to choose between different ways of meeting this appeal; she had a pacifying, postponing gesture, marked with a beautiful authority, a sign of the value for her of what she gave precedence to and which waved off everything else. “Have you had--first of all--any news yet of Bardi?” “That I have is what has driven me straight _at_ you again--since I’ve shown you before how I turn to you at a crisis. He has come as I hoped and like a regular good ‘un,” Hugh was able to state; “I’ve just met him at the station, but I pick him up again, at his hotel in Clifford Street, at five. He stopped, on his way from Dover this morning, to my extreme exasperation, to ‘sample’ Canterbury, and I leave him to a bath and a change and tea. Then swooping down I whirl him round to Bond Street, where his very first apprehension of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected--well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.” She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!” She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.” “Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though he doesn’t know, you see, of Bardi’s being at hand.” “Still,” said the girl, always all lucid for the case, “if the ‘flash-light’ does presently break----!” “It will first take him in the eye?” Hugh had jumped to her idea, but he adopted it only to provide: “It might if he didn’t now wear goggles, so to say!--clapped on him too hard by Pappendick’s so damnably perverse opinion.” With which, however, he quickly bethought himself. “Ah, of course, these wretched days, you haven’t known of Pappendick’s personal visit. After that wire from Verona I wired him back defiance--” “And that brought him?” she cried. “To do the honest thing, yes--I _will_ say for him: to renew, for full assurance, his early memory of our picture.” She hung upon it. “But only to stick then to what he had telegraphed?” “To declare that for _him_, lackaday! our thing’s a pure Moretto--and to declare as much, moreover, with all the weight of his authority, to Bender himself, who of course made a point of seeing him.” “So that Bender” --she followed and wondered-- “is, as a consequence, wholly off?” It made her friend’s humour play up in his acute-ness. “Bender, Lady Grace, is, by the law of his being, never ‘wholly’ off--or on!--anything. He lives, like the moon, in mid-air, shedding his silver light on earth; never quite gone, yet never _all_ there--save for inappreciable moments. He _would_ be in eclipse as a peril, I grant,” Hugh went on-- “if the question had struck him as really closed. But luckily the blessed Press--which is a pure heavenly joy and now quite immense on it--keeps it open as wide as Piccadilly.” “Which makes, however,” Lady Grace discriminated, “for the danger of a grab.” “Ah, but all the more for the shame of a
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and incommoded as she saw him, she yet made him still stand a minute. Then she let everything go. “Do what you like with the picture!” He jerked up his arm and guarding hand as before a levelled blow at his face, and with the other hand flung open the door, having done with her now and immediately lost to sight. Left alone she stood a moment looking before her; then with a vague advance, held apparently by a quickly growing sense of the implication of her act, reached a table where she remained a little, deep afresh in thought--only the next thing to fall into a chair close to it and there, with her elbows on it, yield to the impulse of covering her flushed face with her hands. BOOK THIRD I HUGH CRIMBLE waited again in the Bruton Street drawing-room--this time at the afternoon hour; he restlessly shifted his place, looked at things about him without seeing them; all he saw, all he outwardly studied, was his own face and figure as he stopped an instant before a long glass suspended between two windows. Just as he turned from that brief and perhaps not wholly gratified inspection Lady Grace--that he had sent up his name to whom was immediately apparent--presented herself at the entrance from the other room. These young persons had hereupon no instant exchange of words; their exchange was mute--they but paused where they were; while the silence of each evidently tested the other for full confidence. A measure of this comfort came first, it would have appeared, to Hugh; though he then at once asked for confirmation of it. “Am I right, Lady Grace, am I right?--to have _come_, I mean, after so many days of not hearing, not knowing, and perhaps, all too stupidly, not trying.” And he went on as, still with her eyes on him, she didn’t speak; though, only, we should have guessed, from her stress of emotion. “Even if I’m wrong, let me tell you, I don’t care--simply because, whatever new difficulty I may have brought about for you here a fortnight ago, there’s something that to-day adds to my doubt and my fear too great a pang, and that has made me feel I can scarce bear the suspense of them as they are.” The girl came nearer, and if her grave face expressed a pity it yet declined a dread. “Of what suspense do you speak? Your still being without the other opinion--?” “Ah, that worries me, yes; and all the more, at this hour, as I say, that--” He dropped it, however: “I’ll tell you in a moment! My _real_ torment, all the while, has been not to know, from day to day, what situation, what complication that last scene of ours with your father here has let you in for; and yet at the same time--having no sign nor sound from you!--to see the importance of not making anything possibly worse by approaching you again, however discreetly. I’ve been in the dark,” he pursued, “and feeling that I must leave _you_ there; so that now--just brutally turning up once more under personal need and at any cost--I don’t know whether I most want or most fear what I may learn from you.” Lady Grace, listening and watching, appeared to choose between different ways of meeting this appeal; she had a pacifying, postponing gesture, marked with a beautiful authority, a sign of the value for her of what she gave precedence to and which waved off everything else. “Have you had--first of all--any news yet of Bardi?” “That I have is what has driven me straight _at_ you again--since I’ve shown you before how I turn to you at a crisis. He has come as I hoped and like a regular good ‘un,” Hugh was able to state; “I’ve just met him at the station, but I pick him up again, at his hotel in Clifford Street, at five. He stopped, on his way from Dover this morning, to my extreme exasperation, to ‘sample’ Canterbury, and I leave him to a bath and a change and tea. Then swooping down I whirl him round to Bond Street, where his very first apprehension of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected--well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.” She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!” She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.” “Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though he doesn’t know, you see, of Bardi’s being at hand.” “Still,” said the girl, always all lucid for the case, “if the ‘flash-light’ does presently break----!” “It will first take him in the eye?” Hugh had jumped to her idea, but he adopted it only to provide: “It might if he didn’t now wear goggles, so to say!--clapped on him too hard by Pappendick’s so damnably perverse opinion.” With which, however, he quickly bethought himself. “Ah, of course, these wretched days, you haven’t known of Pappendick’s personal visit. After that wire from Verona I wired him back defiance--” “And that brought him?” she cried. “To do the honest thing, yes--I _will_ say for him: to renew, for full assurance, his early memory of our picture.” She hung upon it. “But only to stick then to what he had telegraphed?” “To declare that for _him_, lackaday! our thing’s a pure Moretto--and to declare as much, moreover, with all the weight of his authority, to Bender himself, who of course made a point of seeing him.” “So that Bender” --she followed and wondered-- “is, as a consequence, wholly off?” It made her friend’s humour play up in his acute-ness. “Bender, Lady Grace, is, by the law of his being, never ‘wholly’ off--or on!--anything. He lives, like the moon, in mid-air, shedding his silver light on earth; never quite gone, yet never _all_ there--save for inappreciable moments. He _would_ be in eclipse as a peril, I grant,” Hugh went on-- “if the question had struck him as really closed. But luckily the blessed Press--which is a pure heavenly joy and now quite immense on it--keeps it open as wide as Piccadilly.” “Which makes, however,” Lady Grace discriminated, “for the danger of a grab.” “Ah, but all the more for the shame of a surrender! Of course I admit that when it’s a question of a life spent, like his, in waiting, acquisitively, for the cat to jump, the only thing for one, at a given moment, as against that signal, is to be found one’s self by the animal in the line of its trajectory. That’s exactly,” he laughed, “where we are!” She cast about as intelligently to note the place. “Your great idea, you mean, _has_ so worked--with the uproar truly as loud as it has seemed to come to us here?” “All beyond my wildest hope,” Hugh returned; “since the sight of the picture, flocked to every day by thousands, so beautifully _tells_. That we must at any cost keep it, that the nation must, and hang on to it tight, is the cry that fills the air--to the tune of ten letters a day in the Papers, with every three days a gorgeous leader; to say nothing of more and more passionate talk all over the place, some of it awfully wild, but all of it wind in our sails.” “I suppose it was that wind then that blew me round there to see the thing in its new light,” Lady Grace said. “But I couldn’t stay--for tears!” “Ah,” Hugh insisted on his side for comfort, “we’ll crow loudest yet! And don’t meanwhile, just _don’t_, those splendid strange eyes of the fellow seem consciously to plead? The women, bless them, adore him, cling to him, and there’s talk of a ‘Ladies’ League of Protest’--all of which keeps up the pitch.” “Poor Amy and I are a ladies’ league,” the girl joylessly joked-- “as we now take in the ‘Journal’ regardless of expense.” “Oh then you practically _have_ it all--since,” Hugh, added after a brief hesitation, “I suppose Lord Theign himself doesn’t languish uninformed.” “At far-off Salsomaggiore--by the papers? No doubt indeed he isn’t spared even the worst,” said Lady Grace-- “and no doubt too it’s a drag on his cure.” Her companion seemed struck with her lack of assurance. “Then you don’t--if I may ask--hear from him?” “I? Never a word.” “He doesn’t write?” Hugh allowed himself to insist. “He doesn’t write. And I don’t write either.” “And Lady Sandgate?” Hugh once more ventured. “Doesn’t _she_ write?” “Doesn’t _she_ hear?” said the young man, treating the other form of the question as a shade evasive. “I’ve asked her not to
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been not to know, from day to day, what situation, what complication that last scene of ours with your father here has let you in for; and yet at the same time--having no sign nor sound from you!--to see the importance of not making anything possibly worse by approaching you again, however discreetly. I’ve been in the dark,” he pursued, “and feeling that I must leave _you_ there; so that now--just brutally turning up once more under personal need and at any cost--I don’t know whether I most want or most fear what I may learn from you.” Lady Grace, listening and watching, appeared to choose between different ways of meeting this appeal; she had a pacifying, postponing gesture, marked with a beautiful authority, a sign of the value for her of what she gave precedence to and which waved off everything else. “Have you had--first of all--any news yet of Bardi?” “That I have is what has driven me straight _at_ you again--since I’ve shown you before how I turn to you at a crisis. He has come as I hoped and like a regular good ‘un,” Hugh was able to state; “I’ve just met him at the station, but I pick him up again, at his hotel in Clifford Street, at five. He stopped, on his way from Dover this morning, to my extreme exasperation, to ‘sample’ Canterbury, and I leave him to a bath and a change and tea. Then swooping down I whirl him round to Bond Street, where his very first apprehension of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected--well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.” She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!” “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity, and” --he quite glowed through his gloom for it--<|quote|>“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”</|quote|>It was a presumption his friend visibly yearned for--but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!” “That is if it comes indeed, confound it!” --he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!” She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.” “Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though he doesn’t know, you see, of Bardi’s being at hand.” “Still,” said the girl, always all lucid for the case, “if the ‘flash-light’ does presently break----!” “It will first take him in the eye?” Hugh had jumped to her idea, but he adopted it only to provide: “It might if he didn’t now wear goggles, so to say!--clapped on him too hard by Pappendick’s so damnably perverse opinion.” With which, however, he quickly bethought himself. “Ah, of course, these wretched days, you haven’t known of Pappendick’s personal visit. After that wire from Verona I wired him back defiance--” “And that brought him?” she cried. “To do the honest thing, yes--I _will_ say for him: to renew, for full assurance, his early memory of our picture.” She hung upon it. “But only to stick then to what he had telegraphed?” “To declare that for _him_, lackaday! our thing’s a pure Moretto--and to declare as much, moreover, with all the weight of his authority, to Bender himself, who of course made a point of seeing him.” “So that Bender” --she followed and wondered-- “is, as a consequence, wholly off?” It made her friend’s humour play up in his acute-ness. “Bender, Lady Grace, is, by the law of his being, never ‘wholly’ off--or on!--anything. He lives, like the moon, in mid-air, shedding his silver light on earth; never quite gone, yet never _all_ there--save for inappreciable moments. He _would_ be in eclipse as a peril, I grant,” Hugh went on-- “if the question had struck him as really closed. But luckily the blessed Press--which is a pure heavenly joy and now quite immense on it--keeps it open as wide as Piccadilly.” “Which makes, however,” Lady Grace discriminated, “for the danger of a grab.” “Ah, but all the more for the shame of a surrender! Of course I admit that when it’s a question of a life spent, like his, in waiting, acquisitively, for the cat to jump, the only thing for one, at a given moment, as against that signal, is to be found one’s self by the animal in the line of its trajectory. That’s exactly,” he laughed, “where we are!” She cast about as intelligently to note the place. “Your great idea, you mean, _has_ so worked--with the uproar truly as loud as it has seemed to come to us here?” “All beyond my wildest hope,” Hugh returned; “since the sight of the picture, flocked to every day by thousands, so beautifully _tells_. That we must at any cost keep it, that the nation must, and hang on to it tight, is the cry that fills the air--to the tune of ten letters a day in the Papers, with every three days a gorgeous leader; to say nothing of more and
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The Outcry
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'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'
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No speaker
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only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be
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body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other,
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excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up
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shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' "but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were." 'If you must go, my dear,' "said I," 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had
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us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--" (again dispersing her tears) "--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the bed." 'My dear,' "said I," 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' "but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were." 'If you must go, my dear,' "said I," 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for
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am sure she will be here presently." Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. "Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me--" (twinkling away a tear or two) "--but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon." 'My dear,' "said I," 'you will blind yourself' "--for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--" (again dispersing her tears) "--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the bed." 'My dear,' "said I," 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' "but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were." 'If you must go, my dear,' "said I," 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return." "So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind." There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of-- "Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?" "To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove." "Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--" "Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and
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"How could you be so unfeeling to your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can." Miss Bates should never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse. She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not. "The ladies were all at home." She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule. There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough." Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on. "I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they _tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently." Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. "Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me--" (twinkling away a tear or two) "--but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon." 'My dear,' "said I," 'you will blind yourself' "--for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--" (again dispersing her tears) "--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the bed." 'My dear,' "said I," 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' "but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were." 'If you must go, my dear,' "said I," 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return." "So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind." There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of-- "Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?" "To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove." "Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--" "Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it till it was all settled." "You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?" "Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley." 'You _must_ _all_ spend your evening with us,' "said she--" 'I positively must have you _all_ come.'" "Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?" "No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it." "Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day?" "I dare say she had." "Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible--I mean, as to the
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she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough." Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on. "I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they _tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently." Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. "Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me--" (twinkling away a tear or two) "--but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon." 'My dear,' "said I," 'you will blind yourself' "--for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--" (again dispersing her tears) "--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the bed." 'My dear,' "said I," 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' "but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming." 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' "said I,"<|quote|>'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,'</|quote|>"said she," 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' "But then Patty came in, and said it was you." 'Oh!' "said I," 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' "said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were." 'If you must go, my dear,' "said I," 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'" Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return." "So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind." There was no
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Emma
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Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.
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No speaker
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am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out
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finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has
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this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I
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more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. "It s a little too complicated for me
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stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. "It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge." Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she
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her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. "It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge." Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham." From which it appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book. No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine
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the house on some such suitable expedition towards tea-time when he found himself stopped on his own doorstep by his sister, Mrs. Milvain. She should, on hearing that no one was at home, have withdrawn submissively, but instead she accepted his half-hearted invitation to come in, and he found himself in the melancholy position of being forced to order tea for her and sit in the drawing-room while she drank it. She speedily made it plain that she was only thus exacting because she had come on a matter of business. He was by no means exhilarated at the news. "Katharine is out this afternoon," he remarked. "Why not come round later and discuss it with her with us both, eh?" "My dear Trevor, I have particular reasons for wishing to talk to you alone.... Where is Katharine?" "She s out with her young man, naturally. Cassandra plays the part of chaperone very usefully. A charming young woman that a great favorite of mine." He turned his stone between his fingers, and conceived different methods of leading Celia away from her obsession, which, he supposed, must have reference to the domestic affairs of Cyril as usual. "With Cassandra," Mrs. Milvain repeated significantly. "With Cassandra." "Yes, with Cassandra," Mr. Hilbery agreed urbanely, pleased at the diversion. "I think they said they were going to Hampton Court, and I rather believe they were taking a protege of mine, Ralph Denham, a very clever fellow, too, to amuse Cassandra. I thought the arrangement very suitable." He was prepared to dwell at some length upon this safe topic, and trusted that Katharine would come in before he had done with it. "Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples. There s the Maze, there s a nice place for having tea I forget what they call it and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities full. Cake, Celia?" Mr. Hilbery continued. "I respect my dinner too much, but that can t possibly apply to you. You ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember." Her brother s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. "It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge." Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham." From which it appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book. No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension. Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized. "I m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I d better make myself disagreeable at once as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see me; your Aunt Celia has taken it into her head apparently that you and Cassandra have been let us say a little foolish. This going about together these pleasant little parties there s been some kind of misunderstanding. I told her I saw no harm in it, but I should just like to hear from yourself. Has Cassandra been left a little too much in the company of Mr. Denham?" Katharine did not reply at once, and Mr. Hilbery tapped the coal encouragingly with the poker. Then she said, without embarrassment or apology: "I don t see why I should answer Aunt Celia s questions. I ve told her already that I won t." Mr. Hilbery was relieved and secretly amused at the thought of the interview, although he could not license such irreverence outwardly. "Very good. Then you authorize me to tell her that she s been mistaken, and there was nothing but a little fun in it? You ve no doubt, Katharine, in your own mind? Cassandra is in our charge, and I don t intend that people should gossip about her. I suggest that you should be a little more careful in future. Invite me to your next entertainment." She did not respond, as he had hoped, with any affectionate or humorous reply. She meditated, pondering something or other, and he reflected
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had done with it. "Hampton Court always seems to me an ideal spot for engaged couples. There s the Maze, there s a nice place for having tea I forget what they call it and then, if the young man knows his business he contrives to take his lady upon the river. Full of possibilities full. Cake, Celia?" Mr. Hilbery continued. "I respect my dinner too much, but that can t possibly apply to you. You ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember." Her brother s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual! "Who is this Mr. Denham?" she asked. "Ralph Denham?" said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. "A very interesting young man. I ve a great belief in him. He s an authority upon our mediaeval institutions, and if he weren t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing" "He is not well off, then?" Mrs. Milvain interposed. "Hasn t a penny, I m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him." "A mother and sisters? His father is dead?" "Yes, his father died some years ago," said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy. "His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place" "A legal family?" Mrs. Milvain inquired. "I fancy I ve seen the name somewhere." Mr. Hilbery shook his head. "I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life," he observed. "I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I ve a great respect for Denham," he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. "Cassandra s grown into a very charming young woman," he started afresh. "Charming to look at, and charming to talk to, though her historical knowledge is not altogether profound. Another cup of tea?" Mrs. Milvain had given her cup a little push, which seemed to indicate some momentary displeasure. But she did not want any more tea. "It is Cassandra that I have come about," she began. "I am very sorry to say that Cassandra is not at all what you think her, Trevor. She has imposed upon your and Maggie s goodness. She has behaved in a way that would have seemed incredible in this house of all houses were it not for other circumstances that are still more incredible." Mr. Hilbery looked taken aback, and was silent for a second. "It all sounds very black," he remarked urbanely, continuing his examination of his finger-nails. "But I own I am completely in the dark."<|quote|>Mrs. Milvain became rigid, and emitted her message in little short sentences of extreme intensity.</|quote|>"Who has Cassandra gone out with? William Rodney. Who has Katharine gone out with? Ralph Denham. Why are they for ever meeting each other round street corners, and going to music-halls, and taking cabs late at night? Why will Katharine not tell me the truth when I question her? I understand the reason now. Katharine has entangled herself with this unknown lawyer; she has seen fit to condone Cassandra s conduct." There was another slight pause. "Ah, well, Katharine will no doubt have some explanation to give me," Mr. Hilbery replied imperturbably. "It s a little too complicated for me to take in all at once, I confess and, if you won t think me rude, Celia, I think I ll be getting along towards Knightsbridge." Mrs. Milvain rose at once. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham," she repeated. She stood very erect with the dauntless air of one testifying to the truth regardless of consequences. She knew from past discussions that the only way to counter her brother s indolence and indifference was to shoot her statements at him in a compressed form once finally upon leaving the room. Having spoken thus, she restrained herself from adding another word, and left the house with the dignity of one inspired by a great ideal. She had certainly framed her remarks in such a way as to prevent her brother from paying his call in the region of Knightsbridge. He had no fears for Katharine, but there was a suspicion at the back of his mind that Cassandra might have been, innocently and ignorantly, led into some foolish situation in one of their unshepherded dissipations. His wife was an erratic judge of the conventions; he himself was lazy; and with Katharine absorbed, very naturally Here he recalled, as well as he could, the exact nature of the charge. "She has condoned Cassandra s conduct and entangled herself with Ralph Denham." From which it appeared that Katharine was _not_ absorbed, or which of them was it that had entangled herself with Ralph Denham? From this maze of absurdity Mr. Hilbery saw no way out until Katharine herself came to his help, so that he applied himself, very philosophically on the whole, to a book. No sooner had he heard the young people come in and go upstairs than he sent a maid to tell Miss Katharine that he wished to speak to her in the study. She was slipping furs loosely onto the floor in the drawing-room in front of the fire. They were all gathered round, reluctant to part. The message from her father surprised Katharine, and the others caught from her look, as she turned to go, a vague sense of apprehension. Mr. Hilbery was reassured by the sight of her. He congratulated himself, he prided himself, upon possessing a daughter who had a sense of responsibility and an understanding of life profound beyond her years. Moreover, she was looking to-day unusual; he had come to take her beauty for granted; now he remembered it and was surprised by it. He thought instinctively that he had interrupted some happy hour of hers with Rodney, and apologized. "I m sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard you come in, and thought I d better make myself disagreeable at once as it seems, unfortunately, that fathers are expected to make themselves disagreeable. Now, your Aunt Celia has been to see
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Night And Day
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"Happy the man who can compose both."
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Mr. Das
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this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments
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. . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear
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reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a
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existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they
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was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he
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do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we
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a tiny void, or as though they had seen their own gestures from an immense height dwarfs talking, shaking hands and assuring each other that they stood on the same footing of insight. They did not think they were wrong, because as soon as honest people think they are wrong instability sets up. Not for them was an infinite goal behind the stars, and they never sought it. But wistfulness descended on them now, as on other occasions; the shadow of the shadow of a dream fell over their clear-cut interests, and objects never seen again seemed messages from another world. "And I do like you so very much, if I may say so," he affirmed. "I'm glad, for I like you. Let's meet again." "We will, in England, if I ever take home leave." "But I suppose you're not likely to do that yet." "Quite a chance. I have a scheme on now as a matter of fact." "Oh, that would be very nice." So it petered out. Ten days later Adela went off, by the same route as her dead friend. The final beat up before the monsoon had come. The country was stricken and blurred. Its houses, trees and fields were all modelled out of the same brown paste, and the sea at Bombay slid about like broth against the quays. Her last Indian adventure was with Antony, who followed her on to the boat and tried to blackmail her. She had been Mr. Fielding's mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore. With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke," he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: "It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand." "I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away." "Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same." "But not in an Indian state." "I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more." "I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur's time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say" Gone, gone,' "for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of their states." "Oh, that is going much too far." "It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand." "But the money, the money they will never pay an adequate salary, those savage Rajahs." "I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character." "If you had been sensible
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Mr. Fielding's mistress, Antony said. Perhaps Antony was discontented with his tip. She rang the cabin bell and had him turned out, but his statement created rather a scandal, and people did not speak to her much during the first part of the voyage. Through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea she was left to herself, and to the dregs of Chandrapore. With Egypt the atmosphere altered. The clean sands, heaped on each side of the canal, seemed to wipe off everything that was difficult and equivocal, and even Port Said looked pure and charming in the light of a rose-grey morning. She went on shore there with an American missionary, they walked out to the Lesseps statue, they drank the tonic air of the Levant. "To what duties, Miss Quested, are you returning in your own country after your taste of the tropics?" the missionary asked. "Observe, I don't say to what do you turn, but to what do you _re_-turn. Every life ought to contain both a turn and a _re_-turn. This celebrated pioneer" (he pointed to the statue) "will make my question clear. He turns to the East, he _re_-turns to the West. You can see it from the cute position of his hands, one of which holds a string of sausages." The missionary looked at her humorously, in order to cover the emptiness of his mind. He had no idea what he meant by "turn" and "return," but he often used words in pairs, for the sake of moral brightness. "I see," she replied. Suddenly, in the Mediterranean clarity, she had seen. Her first duty on returning to England was to look up those other children of Mrs. Moore's, Ralph and Stella, then she would turn to her profession. Mrs. Moore had tended to keep the products of her two marriages apart, and Adela had not come across the younger branch so far. CHAPTER XXX Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law's new monthly magazine. He accorded both. "My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus." "It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally," he said timidly. "There is no such person in existence as the general Indian." "There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed." "I know, but will it last?" "I fear not," said Das, who had much mental clearness. "And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul." "Half a sec," said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. "Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?"<|quote|>"Happy the man who can compose both."</|quote|>"You are full of compliments to-day." "I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case," said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. "You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner." "No, no, what nonsense!" protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. "Excellent," said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, "I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung" "; Das thought, "Some Moslems are very violent." They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other's heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: "Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth." "Oh, well, about this poem how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?" he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil. "Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau." "How did he hear?" "He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?" Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed. The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. "My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke," he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: "It is far the wisest way
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A Passage To India
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he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.
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No speaker
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this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said,
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find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before."
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her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy
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Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other.
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that he and she could live like this? And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears. She wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a
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stopped with a slight start, and just then he saw two young men of fashionable cut approaching. There was a familiar air about their overcoats and the way their smart silk mufflers were folded over their white ties; and he wondered how youths of their quality happened to be dining out so early. Then he remembered that the Reggie Chiverses, whose house was a few doors above, were taking a large party that evening to see Adelaide Neilson in Romeo and Juliet, and guessed that the two were of the number. They passed under a lamp, and he recognised Lawrence Lefferts and a young Chivers. A mean desire not to have Madame Olenska seen at the Beauforts' door vanished as he felt the penetrating warmth of her hand. "I shall see you now--we shall be together," he broke out, hardly knowing what he said. "Ah," she answered, "Granny has told you?" While he watched her he was aware that Lefferts and Chivers, on reaching the farther side of the street corner, had discreetly struck away across Fifth Avenue. It was the kind of masculine solidarity that he himself often practised; now he sickened at their connivance. Did she really imagine that he and she could live like this? And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears. She wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?"
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but in ten minutes more he would be mounting his own doorstep; and there were May, and habit, and honour, and all the old decencies that he and his people had always believed in ... At his corner he hesitated, and then walked on down Fifth Avenue. Ahead of him, in the winter night, loomed a big unlit house. As he drew near he thought how often he had seen it blazing with lights, its steps awninged and carpeted, and carriages waiting in double line to draw up at the curbstone. It was in the conservatory that stretched its dead-black bulk down the side street that he had taken his first kiss from May; it was under the myriad candles of the ball-room that he had seen her appear, tall and silver-shining as a young Diana. Now the house was as dark as the grave, except for a faint flare of gas in the basement, and a light in one upstairs room where the blind had not been lowered. As Archer reached the corner he saw that the carriage standing at the door was Mrs. Manson Mingott's. What an opportunity for Sillerton Jackson, if he should chance to pass! Archer had been greatly moved by old Catherine's account of Madame Olenska's attitude toward Mrs. Beaufort; it made the righteous reprobation of New York seem like a passing by on the other side. But he knew well enough what construction the clubs and drawing-rooms would put on Ellen Olenska's visits to her cousin. He paused and looked up at the lighted window. No doubt the two women were sitting together in that room: Beaufort had probably sought consolation elsewhere. There were even rumours that he had left New York with Fanny Ring; but Mrs. Beaufort's attitude made the report seem improbable. Archer had the nocturnal perspective of Fifth Avenue almost to himself. At that hour most people were indoors, dressing for dinner; and he was secretly glad that Ellen's exit was likely to be unobserved. As the thought passed through his mind the door opened, and she came out. Behind her was a faint light, such as might have been carried down the stairs to show her the way. She turned to say a word to some one; then the door closed, and she came down the steps. "Ellen," he said in a low voice, as she reached the pavement. She stopped with a slight start, and just then he saw two young men of fashionable cut approaching. There was a familiar air about their overcoats and the way their smart silk mufflers were folded over their white ties; and he wondered how youths of their quality happened to be dining out so early. Then he remembered that the Reggie Chiverses, whose house was a few doors above, were taking a large party that evening to see Adelaide Neilson in Romeo and Juliet, and guessed that the two were of the number. They passed under a lamp, and he recognised Lawrence Lefferts and a young Chivers. A mean desire not to have Madame Olenska seen at the Beauforts' door vanished as he felt the penetrating warmth of her hand. "I shall see you now--we shall be together," he broke out, hardly knowing what he said. "Ah," she answered, "Granny has told you?" While he watched her he was aware that Lefferts and Chivers, on reaching the farther side of the street corner, had discreetly struck away across Fifth Avenue. It was the kind of masculine solidarity that he himself often practised; now he sickened at their connivance. Did she really imagine that he and she could live like this? And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears. She wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked, as if she had received the same warning. "What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask
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practised; now he sickened at their connivance. Did she really imagine that he and she could live like this? And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears. She wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!"<|quote|>he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium.</|quote|>"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"
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The Age Of Innocence
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"Here!"
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Mr. Giles
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called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's
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appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master
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In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the
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the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. "In a word!" cried the gentleman, "Better or worse?" "Better much better!" replied Oliver, hastily. "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?" "Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that
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he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. "In a word!" cried the gentleman, "Better or worse?" "Better much better!" replied Oliver, hastily. "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?" "Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end." The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. "You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?" demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. "Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled." "I would not for the world, sir," replied Oliver. "Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him
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of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!" "You must compose yourself," said the doctor supporting her. "Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray." "Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!" "No!" cried the doctor, passionately. "As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come." The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. "In a word!" cried the gentleman, "Better or worse?" "Better much better!" replied Oliver, hastily. "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?" "Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end." The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. "You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?" demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. "Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled." "I would not for the world, sir," replied Oliver. "Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so." The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark for he could well guess what his feelings were and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay. All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him. "I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles," said he. "I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry," said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief;
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so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and cheerless winter: not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in their ghastly folds. A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother a mother once among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on. Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time. When he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die. They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. "What of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!" "You must compose yourself," said the doctor supporting her. "Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray." "Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!" "No!" cried the doctor, passionately. "As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come." The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. "In a word!" cried the gentleman, "Better or worse?" "Better much better!" replied Oliver, hastily. "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?" "Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end." The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. "You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?" demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. "Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled." "I would not for the world, sir," replied Oliver. "Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so." The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark for he could well guess what his feelings were and so stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay. All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him. "I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles," said he. "I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I see her. You can say I am coming." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry," said Giles: giving a final polish to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; "but if you would leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any more authority with them if they did." "Well," rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, "you can do as you like. Let him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be taken for madmen." Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure. As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not already spoken of her as his mother. Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both sides. "Mother!" whispered the young man; "why did you not write before?" "I did," replied Mrs. Maylie; "but, on reflection, I determined to keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion." "But why," said the young man, "why run the chance of that occurring which so nearly happened? If Rose had I cannot utter that word now if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!" "If that _had_ been the case, Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "I fear your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little import." "And who can wonder if it be so, mother?" rejoined the young man; "or why should I say, _if_? It is it is you know it, mother you must know it!" "I know that she deserves the best
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"What of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!" "You must compose yourself," said the doctor supporting her. "Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray." "Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!" "No!" cried the doctor, passionately. "As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come." The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to receive her. CHAPTER XXXIV. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast. The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed him. As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.<|quote|>"Here!"</|quote|>cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-ver!" "Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door. Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. "In a word!" cried the gentleman, "Better or worse?" "Better much better!" replied Oliver, hastily. "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?" "Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place only a few hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end." The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door, leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside. "You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your part, my boy, is there?" demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. "Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled." "I would not for the world, sir," replied Oliver. "Indeed you may believe me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many years to come. I heard him say so." The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more than
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Oliver Twist
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Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.
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No speaker
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sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all
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you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over?
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like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my
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I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became
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ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was
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you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great
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got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass. "This here's lively, Mas' Don," said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune. "I want to speak to the principal officer," said Don, excitedly. "We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep." "Will you take a bit of good advice, my lad?" said a familiar voice at his ear. "If it is good advice," said Don, sharply. "Then hold your tongue, and go quietly. I'll speak to the lieutenant when we get aboard." Don glanced sharply at the bluff-looking boatswain who had spoken, and he seemed to mean well; but in Don's excitement he could not be sure, and one moment he felt disposed to make a bold dash for liberty, as soon as the gates were opened, and then to shout for help; the next to appeal to his fellow-prisoners to make a bold fight for liberty; and while these thoughts were running one over another in his mind, a sharp order was given, the gates were thrown open, and they were all marched down a narrow lane, dimly lit by one miserable oil lamp at the end. Almost as they reached the end the familiar odour, damp and seaweedy, of the tide reached Don's nostrils; and directly after he found himself being hurried down a flight of wet and slippery stone steps to where a lanthorn showed a large boat, into which he was hurried along with the rest. Then there was the sensation of movement, as the boat rose and fell. Fresh orders. The splash of oars. A faint creaking sound where they rubbed on the tholes, and then the regular measured dip, dip, and splash, splash. "Tide runs sharp," said a deep voice. "Give way, my lads, or we shall be swept by her; that's it." Don listened to all this as if it were part of a dream, while he gazed wildly about at the dimly-seen moving lights and the black, shadowy-looking shapes of the various vessels which kept on looming up, till after gradually
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muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place. "Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." "How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk."<|quote|>Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him.</|quote|>"It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a few minutes, when he started into wakefulness on feeling himself roughly shaken. "Rouse up, my lad, sharp!" And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ON BOARD. It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock's charge. All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass. "This here's lively, Mas' Don," said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune. "I want to speak to the principal officer," said Don, excitedly. "We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep." "Will you take a bit of good advice, my lad?" said a familiar voice at his ear. "If
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Don Lavington
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DON'S DECISION.
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No speaker
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abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don.
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till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's
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and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the
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Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head,
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don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head, and seemed to be hesitating. "I don't know what to say, Jem. If they treated us well on board, I should be disposed to say let's put up with our life till we get back home." "But then they don't treat us well, Mas' Don. I don't grumble to you, but it's a reg'lar dog's life I lead; bully and cuss and swear at you, and then not even well fed." "But we are to be paid for it, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Paid, Mas' Don!" replied Jem, contemptuously. "What paying will make up for what we go through?" "And
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me." "Oh, yes, they would, if you went the right way to work. It isn't only being big. They're big, much bigger all round than Englishmen, and stronger and more active. They're not afraid of your body, but of your mind; that's what they can't understand. If I was to write down something on a bit of wood or a leaf--we don't often see paper here--and give it to you to read, and you did the same to me, that gets over them: it's a wonder they can't understand. And lots of other things we know are puzzles to them, and so they think us big. You consider it over a bit, my lad; and if you decide to run for it, I'll see as you don't come to no harm." "And him too?" "Oh, yes; he shall be all right too; I'll see to that." "Shouldn't be too tempting for 'em, eh? Should I?" said Jem. "Not for our tribes here," said the Englishman, laughing; "but I may as well be plain with you. If we went to war with some of the others, and they got hold of you--" "Say, Mas' Don," said Jem interrupting the speaker, "I don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head, and seemed to be hesitating. "I don't know what to say, Jem. If they treated us well on board, I should be disposed to say let's put up with our life till we get back home." "But then they don't treat us well, Mas' Don. I don't grumble to you, but it's a reg'lar dog's life I lead; bully and cuss and swear at you, and then not even well fed." "But we are to be paid for it, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Paid, Mas' Don!" replied Jem, contemptuously. "What paying will make up for what we go through?" "And I suppose we should have prize-money if we fought and took a French ship." "But then we're sent right out here, Mas' Don, where there's no French ships to fight; and if there were, the prize-money is shared among them as aren't killed." "Of course." "Well, how do we know as we shouldn't be killed? No, Mas' Don, they don't behave well to us, and I want to get home again, and so do you." "Yes, Jem." "P'r'aps it's cowardly, and they'll call it desertion." "Yes, Jem." "But we sha'n't be there to hear 'em call it so." "No, Jem." "Therefore it don't matter, Mas' Don; I've thought this all over hundreds o' times when you've been asleep." "And I've thought it over, Jem, hundreds of times when you've been asleep." "There you go again, sir, taking the ideas out of a man's brain. You shouldn't, Mas' Don. I always play fair with you." "Yes, of course you do." "Well, then, you ought to play fair with me. Now look here, Mas' Don," continued Jem, seating himself on the gunwale of the boat, so as to let his bare feet hang in the water. "'Ware sharks, Jem," said Don quickly.
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shout, and went through his former performance, but with more flourish, as if he were slaying numbers of enemies, and his facial distortion was hideous. "Well, when I was a little un, and went to school," said Jem, "I used to get spanks if I put out my tongue. Seems as if it's a fine thing to do out here." "Yes; it's a way they have when they're going to fight," said the Englishman thoughtfully. "S'pose it would mean trouble if I were to set you on to do it; but it wouldn't be at all bad for me if you were both of you to leave the ship and come ashore." "To be cooked?" said Jem. "Bah! Stuff! They'd treat you well. Youngster here's all right; Ngati would make him his pakeha." "My pakeha," cried the chief, patting Don again. "Much powder; much gun." "Pupil of mine," said the Englishman, smiling; "I taught him our lingo." "What does he mean?" said Don; "that he'd give me a big gun and plenty of powder?" The Englishman laughed. "No, no; he wants you to bring plenty of guns and powder ashore with you when you come." "When I come!" said Don, thoughtfully. "I sha'n't persuade you, my lad; but you might do worse. You'd be all right with us; and there are Englishmen here and there beginning to settle." "And how often is there a post goes out for England?" "Post? For England? Letters?" "Yes." "I don't know; I've been here a long time now, and I never had a letter and I never sent one away." "Then how should I be able to send to my Sally." "Dunno," said the man. "There, you think it over. Ngati here will be ready to take care of you, youngster; and matey here shall soon have a chief to take care of him." "I don't know so much about that," said Jem. "I should be ready enough to come ashore, but you've got some precious unpleasant ways out here as wouldn't suit me." "You'd soon get used to them," said the Englishman, drily; "and after leading a rough life, and being bullied by everybody, it isn't half bad to be a chief, and have a big canoe of your own, and make people do as you like." "But then you're a great powerful man," said Don. "They'd obey you, but they wouldn't obey me." "Oh, yes, they would, if you went the right way to work. It isn't only being big. They're big, much bigger all round than Englishmen, and stronger and more active. They're not afraid of your body, but of your mind; that's what they can't understand. If I was to write down something on a bit of wood or a leaf--we don't often see paper here--and give it to you to read, and you did the same to me, that gets over them: it's a wonder they can't understand. And lots of other things we know are puzzles to them, and so they think us big. You consider it over a bit, my lad; and if you decide to run for it, I'll see as you don't come to no harm." "And him too?" "Oh, yes; he shall be all right too; I'll see to that." "Shouldn't be too tempting for 'em, eh? Should I?" said Jem. "Not for our tribes here," said the Englishman, laughing; "but I may as well be plain with you. If we went to war with some of the others, and they got hold of you--" "Say, Mas' Don," said Jem interrupting the speaker, "I don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head, and seemed to be hesitating. "I don't know what to say, Jem. If they treated us well on board, I should be disposed to say let's put up with our life till we get back home." "But then they don't treat us well, Mas' Don. I don't grumble to you, but it's a reg'lar dog's life I lead; bully and cuss and swear at you, and then not even well fed." "But we are to be paid for it, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Paid, Mas' Don!" replied Jem, contemptuously. "What paying will make up for what we go through?" "And I suppose we should have prize-money if we fought and took a French ship." "But then we're sent right out here, Mas' Don, where there's no French ships to fight; and if there were, the prize-money is shared among them as aren't killed." "Of course." "Well, how do we know as we shouldn't be killed? No, Mas' Don, they don't behave well to us, and I want to get home again, and so do you." "Yes, Jem." "P'r'aps it's cowardly, and they'll call it desertion." "Yes, Jem." "But we sha'n't be there to hear 'em call it so." "No, Jem." "Therefore it don't matter, Mas' Don; I've thought this all over hundreds o' times when you've been asleep." "And I've thought it over, Jem, hundreds of times when you've been asleep." "There you go again, sir, taking the ideas out of a man's brain. You shouldn't, Mas' Don. I always play fair with you." "Yes, of course you do." "Well, then, you ought to play fair with me. Now look here, Mas' Don," continued Jem, seating himself on the gunwale of the boat, so as to let his bare feet hang in the water. "'Ware sharks, Jem," said Don quickly. Jem was balanced on the edge, and at those words he threw himself backward with his heels in the air, and after he had struggled up with some difficulty, he stood rubbing his head. "Where 'bouts--where 'bouts, sir?" "I did not see a shark, Jem, but the place swarms with them, and I thought it was a risk." "Well, I do call that a trick," grumbled Jem. "Hit my nut such a whack, I did, and just in the worst place." "Better than having a leg torn off, Jem. Well, what were you going to say?" "Bottom of the boat's nearly knocked it all out of my head," said Jem, rubbing the tender spot. "What I meant to say was that I was stolen." "Well, I suppose we may call it so." "Stolen from my wife, as I belongs to." "Yes, Jem." "And you belongs to your mother and your Uncle Josiah, so you was stolen, too." "Yes, Jem, if you put it in that way, I suppose we were." "Well, then," said Jem triumphantly, "they may call it cowardly, or desertion, or what they like; but what I say is this, a man can't be doing wrong in taking stolen goods back to them as they belong to." "No, Jem, I s'pose not." "Very well then, Mas' Don; the question is this--Will you or won't you?" "I will, Jem." "First chance?" "Yes, I am decided." "That's a bargain then, my lad. So shake hands on it. Why! How rough and hard and tarry your hands have grown!" "Look out, Jem!" Don caught hold of the grapnel rope ready to haul up and get away from the shore, but Jem seized his hand. "It's all right, Mas' Don. Only them two running back with a basket, and I'm in that sort o' way of thinking that they've only got to coax me a bit, and swear as there shall be no tattooing and meat-pie nonsense, and I'd go ashore with them now." "No, Jem, that would not do till we know a little more of them, and I can't help hesitating now it comes to the point." "That's just what I felt, Mas' Don," said Jem, with a perplexed look on his face. "Come, Jem, who's stealing some one else's ideas now?" "Like fruit?" said the tattooed Englishman, coming down to the water's edge. "That depends," said Jem, dubiously. "What
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"but I may as well be plain with you. If we went to war with some of the others, and they got hold of you--" "Say, Mas' Don," said Jem interrupting the speaker, "I don't like being a sort of white nigger aboard ship, and being kept a prisoner, and told it's to serve the king; but a man can go into the galley to speak to the cook without feeling that he's wondering which jynte of you he shall use first. No thankye; it's a werry lovely country, but I want to get home to my Sally some day; and if we cut and run here, I'm afraid I never should." "You turn it over in your own minds, both of you, my lads. There, my pipe's out, and I think we'll go. Stop here long?" "Do you mean the ship, or here with the boat?" "Here with the boat," said the Englishman, holding out his hand. "Till our party comes back," said Jem. "I may see you again," said the Englishman; and shaking hands, he said a few words to his companion, and then began to wade ashore. The savage smiled and shook hands in turn, after which he patted Don on the shoulder again. "My pakeha," he said, sharply; "Maori pakeha--my." He followed his leader; and Don and Jem watched them till they disappeared amongst the abundant growth. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.<|quote|>DON'S DECISION.</|quote|>"It's tempting, Jem," said Don. "Yes, Mas' Don; and it's untempting, too. I had a book once about manners and customs of foreign parts, but it didn't say things so plain as you've found 'em here." "Yes, I'm afraid it won't do, Jem. Even if we got away from the ship, it might be to a life that would be worse." "That's it, sir, as I said afore, `out of the frying-pan into the fire.' Wonder how long they'll be 'fore they come back." "Not till sundown. I say, shall we try it or sha'n't we?" Jem scratched his head, and seemed to be hesitating. "I don't know what to say, Jem. If they treated us well on board, I should be disposed to say let's put up with our life till we get back home." "But then they don't treat us well, Mas' Don. I don't grumble to you, but it's a reg'lar dog's life I lead; bully and cuss and swear at you, and then not even well fed." "But we are to be paid for it, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Paid, Mas' Don!" replied Jem, contemptuously. "What paying will make up for what we go through?" "And I suppose we should have prize-money if we fought and took a French ship." "But then we're sent right out here, Mas' Don, where there's no French ships to fight; and if there were, the prize-money is shared among
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Don Lavington
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"Oh no, nothing to eat."
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Brenda
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you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and
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still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the
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her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you
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to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's
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"Better not." "All right... I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?" "No." "Well, you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs Rattery." "Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off." She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, "Yes, I'll go by that train." "We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat." "My bag... upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again." She did not speak on her way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter." Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping. "Why not go first-class?" "No, no. I always go third." She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously, wondering if she were ill. "Don't you want anything to read?" "Nothing to read." "Or eat?" "Or eat." "Then I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said
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accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't you remember? John was going hunting to-day." She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. "John... John Andrew... I... oh, thank God..." Then she burst into tears. She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back. Upstairs Mrs Northcote had Souki Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, "There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love..." [VII] In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper's room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it. "This is Jock speaking. I've just seen Brenda. She's coming down by the seven o'clock train." "Is she terribly upset?" "Yes, naturally." "Where is she now?" "She's with me. I'm speaking from Polly's." "Shall I talk to her?" "Better not." "All right... I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?" "No." "Well, you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs Rattery." "Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off." She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, "Yes, I'll go by that train." "We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat." "My bag... upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again." She did not speak on her way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter." Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping. "Why not go first-class?" "No, no. I always go third." She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously, wondering if she were ill. "Don't you want anything to read?" "Nothing to read." "Or eat?" "Or eat." "Then I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had
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a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't you remember? John was going hunting to-day." She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. "John... John Andrew... I... oh, thank God..." Then she burst into tears. She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back. Upstairs Mrs Northcote had Souki Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, "There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love..." [VII] In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper's room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it. "This is Jock speaking. I've just seen Brenda. She's coming down by the seven o'clock train." "Is she terribly upset?" "Yes, naturally." "Where is she now?" "She's with me. I'm speaking from Polly's." "Shall I talk to her?" "Better not." "All right... I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?" "No." "Well, you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs Rattery." "Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off." She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, "Yes, I'll go by that train." "We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat." "My bag... upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again." She did not speak on her way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter." Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping. "Why not go first-class?" "No, no. I always go third." She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously, wondering if she were ill. "Don't you want anything to read?" "Nothing to read." "Or eat?" "Or eat." "Then I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a nearby seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat
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tears. She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back. Upstairs Mrs Northcote had Souki Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, "There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love..." [VII] In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper's room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it. "This is Jock speaking. I've just seen Brenda. She's coming down by the seven o'clock train." "Is she terribly upset?" "Yes, naturally." "Where is she now?" "She's with me. I'm speaking from Polly's." "Shall I talk to her?" "Better not." "All right... I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?" "No." "Well, you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs Rattery." "Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off." She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, "Yes, I'll go by that train." "We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat." "My bag... upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again." She did not speak on her way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?"<|quote|>"Oh no, nothing to eat."</|quote|>She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. "When you first told me," she said. "I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying." "I know." "I didn't say anything, did I?" "You know what you said." "Yes, I know... I didn't mean... I don't think it's any good trying to explain." Jock said, "Are you sure you've got everything?" "Yes, that's everything," she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless. "Well, we'd better go to the station." "All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter." Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping. "Why not go first-class?" "No, no. I always go third." She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously, wondering if she were ill. "Don't you want anything to read?" "Nothing to read." "Or eat?" "Or eat." "Then I'll say good-bye." "Good-bye." Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels. * * * * * When the news became known, Marjorie said to Allan, "Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr Beaver." But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, "That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned." The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Princes Risborough. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen. Jock drove from Paddington to Bratt's. One of the men by the bar said, "Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy." "Yes, I was there." "No, were you? What a ghastly thing." Later a telephone message came: "Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club." "No, no, tell her I'm not here," said Jock. [VIII] The inquest was held at eleven o'clock
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"
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Emma
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we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any
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between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think
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unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into
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thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to
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word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I
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in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the
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it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part. With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?" "--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed." It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt. "Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word--" "I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good night." Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it. Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of
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such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. "Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other." Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. "Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves." "The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill." He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. "My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"<|quote|>"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why do you make a doubt of it?"</|quote|>"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?" "Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--" "Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?" "I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public." "Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference." She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. CHAPTER VI After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it. Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore
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Emma
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"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."
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Joe Hamilton
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was here," put in Kitty.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"Well, den, Joe," said his
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think of it if he was here," put in Kitty.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"Well, den, Joe," said his mother, her voice trembling with
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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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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
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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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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.
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said, "you 're mekin' it wuss. You 're mekin' it ha'dah fu' me to baih when you talk dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?" Joe remained sullenly silent. His mother's faith was too stalwart for his comprehension. There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it. "We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an' then we 'll go away some place, up No'th maybe." "Let 's go to New York," said Joe. "New Yo'k?" They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone. All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it 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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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
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I could find anythin' to work at." "Don't you go anywhaih, child. It 'ud only be worse. De niggah men dat ust to be bowin' an' scrapin' to me an' tekin' off dey hats to me laughed in my face. I met Minty--an' she slurred me right in de street. Dey 'd do worse fu' you." In the midst of the conversation a knock came at the door. It was a messenger from the "House," as they still called Oakley's home, and he wanted them to be out of the cottage by the next afternoon, as the new servants were coming and would want the rooms. The message was so curt, so hard and decisive, that Fannie was startled out of her grief into immediate action. "Well, we got to go," she said, rising wearily. "But where are we goin'?" wailed Kitty in affright. "There 's no place to go to. We have n't got a house. Where 'll we go?" "Out o' town someplace as fur away from this damned hole as we kin git." The boy spoke recklessly in his anger. He had never sworn before his mother before. She looked at him in horror. "Joe, Joe," she said, "you 're mekin' it wuss. You 're mekin' it ha'dah fu' me to baih when you talk dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?" Joe remained sullenly silent. His mother's faith was too stalwart for his comprehension. There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it. "We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an' then we 'll go away some place, up No'th maybe." "Let 's go to New York," said Joe. "New Yo'k?" They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone. All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it 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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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
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face and fell into the shaking cup. Joe looked on silently. He had been out and he understood. "I 'll go out to-morrow and do some looking around for a house while you stay at home an' rest, ma." Her mother looked up, the maternal instinct for the protection of her daughter at once aroused. "Oh, no, not you, Kitty," she said. Then for the first time Joe spoke: "You 'd just as well tell Kitty now, ma, for she 's got to come across it anyhow." "What you know about it? Whaih you been to?" "I 've been out huntin' work. I 've been to Jones's bahbah shop an' to the Continental Hotel." His light-brown face turned brick red with anger and shame at the memory of it. "I don't think I 'll try any more." Kitty was gazing with wide and saddening eyes at her mother. "Were they mean to you too, ma?" she asked breathlessly. "Mean? Oh Kitty! Kitty! you don't know what it was like. It nigh killed me. Thaih was plenty of houses an' owned by people I 've knowed fu' yeahs, but not one of 'em wanted to rent to me. Some of 'em made excuses 'bout one thing er t' other, but de res' come right straight out an' said dat we 'd give a neighbourhood a bad name ef we moved into it. I 've almos' tramped my laigs off. I 've tried every decent place I could think of, but nobody wants us." The girl was standing with her hands clenched nervously before her. It was almost more than she could understand. "Why, we ain't done anything," she said. "Even if they don't know any better than to believe that pa was guilty, they know we ain't done anything." "I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em," said Joe in his throat. "It ain't goin' to do no good to look at it that a-way, Joe," his mother replied. "I know hit 's ha'd, but we got to do de bes' we kin." "What are we goin' to do?" cried the boy fiercely. "They won't let us work. They won't let us live anywhaih. Do they want us to live on the levee an' steal, like some of 'em do?" "What are we goin' to do?" echoed Kitty helplessly. "I 'd go out ef I thought I could find anythin' to work at." "Don't you go anywhaih, child. It 'ud only be worse. De niggah men dat ust to be bowin' an' scrapin' to me an' tekin' off dey hats to me laughed in my face. I met Minty--an' she slurred me right in de street. Dey 'd do worse fu' you." In the midst of the conversation a knock came at the door. It was a messenger from the "House," as they still called Oakley's home, and he wanted them to be out of the cottage by the next afternoon, as the new servants were coming and would want the rooms. The message was so curt, so hard and decisive, that Fannie was startled out of her grief into immediate action. "Well, we got to go," she said, rising wearily. "But where are we goin'?" wailed Kitty in affright. "There 's no place to go to. We have n't got a house. Where 'll we go?" "Out o' town someplace as fur away from this damned hole as we kin git." The boy spoke recklessly in his anger. He had never sworn before his mother before. She looked at him in horror. "Joe, Joe," she said, "you 're mekin' it wuss. You 're mekin' it ha'dah fu' me to baih when you talk dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?" Joe remained sullenly silent. His mother's faith was too stalwart for his comprehension. There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it. "We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an' then we 'll go away some place, up No'th maybe." "Let 's go to New York," said Joe. "New Yo'k?" They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone. All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it 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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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 of New York will begin to intoxicate him. Then, if he be wise, he will go away, any place,--yes, he will even go over to Jersey. But if he be a fool, he will stay and stay on until the town becomes all in all to him; until the very streets are his chums and certain buildings and corners his best friends. Then he is hopeless, and to live elsewhere would be death. The Bowery will be his romance, Broadway his lyric, and the Park his pastoral, the river and the glory of it all his epic, and he will look down pityingly on all the rest of humanity. It was the afternoon of a clear October day that the Hamiltons reached New York. Fannie had some misgivings about crossing the ferry, but once on the boat these gave way to speculations as to what they should find on the other side. With the eagerness of youth to take
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anything." "I 'd like to cut the heart out of a few of 'em," said Joe in his throat. "It ain't goin' to do no good to look at it that a-way, Joe," his mother replied. "I know hit 's ha'd, but we got to do de bes' we kin." "What are we goin' to do?" cried the boy fiercely. "They won't let us work. They won't let us live anywhaih. Do they want us to live on the levee an' steal, like some of 'em do?" "What are we goin' to do?" echoed Kitty helplessly. "I 'd go out ef I thought I could find anythin' to work at." "Don't you go anywhaih, child. It 'ud only be worse. De niggah men dat ust to be bowin' an' scrapin' to me an' tekin' off dey hats to me laughed in my face. I met Minty--an' she slurred me right in de street. Dey 'd do worse fu' you." In the midst of the conversation a knock came at the door. It was a messenger from the "House," as they still called Oakley's home, and he wanted them to be out of the cottage by the next afternoon, as the new servants were coming and would want the rooms. The message was so curt, so hard and decisive, that Fannie was startled out of her grief into immediate action. "Well, we got to go," she said, rising wearily. "But where are we goin'?" wailed Kitty in affright. "There 's no place to go to. We have n't got a house. Where 'll we go?" "Out o' town someplace as fur away from this damned hole as we kin git." The boy spoke recklessly in his anger. He had never sworn before his mother before. She looked at him in horror. "Joe, Joe," she said, "you 're mekin' it wuss. You 're mekin' it ha'dah fu' me to baih when you talk dat a-way. What you mean? Whaih you think Gawd is?" Joe remained sullenly silent. His mother's faith was too stalwart for his comprehension. There was nothing like it in his own soul to interpret it. "We 'll git de secon'-han' dealah to tek ouah things to-morrer, an' then we 'll go away some place, up No'th maybe." "Let 's go to New York," said Joe. "New Yo'k?" They had heard of New York as a place vague and far away, a city that, like Heaven, to them had existed by faith alone. All the days of their lives they had heard of it, and it 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.<|quote|>"I guess he 'd think we was doin' the best we could."</|quote|>"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
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The Sport Of The Gods
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said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.
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No speaker
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Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on
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devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he
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introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time,"
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his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much
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of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time: "'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet....'" In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began
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charades, proverbs, and was fond of being humorous and witty, and he always wore an expression from which it was impossible to tell whether he were joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow. And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time: "'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet....'" In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and
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IONITCH I WHEN visitors to the provincial town S---- complained of the dreariness and monotony of life, the inhabitants of the town, as though defending themselves, declared that it was very nice in S----, that there was a library, a theatre, a club; that they had balls; and, finally, that there were clever, agreeable, and interesting families with whom one could make acquaintance. And they used to point to the family of the Turkins as the most highly cultivated and talented. This family lived in their own house in the principal street, near the Governor's. Ivan Petrovitch Turkin himself--a stout, handsome, dark man with whiskers--used to get up amateur performances for benevolent objects, and used to take the part of an elderly general and cough very amusingly. He knew a number of anecdotes, charades, proverbs, and was fond of being humorous and witty, and he always wore an expression from which it was impossible to tell whether he were joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow. And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time: "'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet....'" In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have
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whether he were joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin, nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels and stories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors. The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on the piano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent. The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed their talents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy and cool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden, where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there were visitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchen and a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always a sure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow. And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the district doctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he, too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him to make the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introduced to Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather, about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On a holiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing his patients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreation and to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he had not yet set up his carriage), humming all the time: "'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet....'" In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then Ivan Petrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself, and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of people they were. "How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting him on the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor. Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him, Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife-- "I tell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital; he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?" "Sit here,"<|quote|>said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down beside her.</|quote|>"You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
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"C est une terrible vieille."
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Marqis De Griers
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he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!"
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himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch,
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you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old
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could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for
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the General s nursemaid). "She, like yourselves, shall have the price of a new gown. Here, Alexis Ivanovitch! Give that beggar something" (a crooked-backed ragamuffin had approached to stare at us). "But perhaps he is _not_ a beggar only a rascal," I replied. "Never mind, never mind. Give him a g lden." I approached the beggar in question, and handed him the coin. Looking at me in great astonishment, he silently accepted the g lden, while from his person there proceeded a strong smell of liquor. "Have you never tried your luck, Alexis Ivanovitch?" "No, Madame." "Yet just now I could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to
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lden piece. Let them have it out of the gold, Alexis Ivanovitch. But why is this footman bowing to me, and that other man as well? Are they congratulating me? Well, let them have ten g lden apiece." "Madame la princesse Un pauvre expatri Malheur continuel Les princes russes sont si g n reux!" said a man who for some time past had been hanging around the old lady s chair a personage who, dressed in a shabby frockcoat and coloured waistcoat, kept taking off his cap, and smiling pathetically. "Give him ten g lden," said the Grandmother. "No, give him twenty. Now, enough of that, or I shall never get done with you all. Take a moment s rest, and then carry me away. Prascovia, I mean to buy a new dress for you tomorrow. Yes, and for you too, Mlle. Blanche. Please translate, Prascovia." "Merci, Madame," replied Mlle. Blanche gratefully as she twisted her face into the mocking smile which usually she kept only for the benefit of De Griers and the General. The latter looked confused, and seemed greatly relieved when we reached the Avenue. "How surprised Theodosia too will be!" went on the Grandmother (thinking of the General s nursemaid). "She, like yourselves, shall have the price of a new gown. Here, Alexis Ivanovitch! Give that beggar something" (a crooked-backed ragamuffin had approached to stare at us). "But perhaps he is _not_ a beggar only a rascal," I replied. "Never mind, never mind. Give him a g lden." I approached the beggar in question, and handed him the coin. Looking at me in great astonishment, he silently accepted the g lden, while from his person there proceeded a strong smell of liquor. "Have you never tried your luck, Alexis Ivanovitch?" "No, Madame." "Yet just now I could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself;
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the wheel revolved. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. Again 4000 florins in all 8000! "Give me them," commanded the Grandmother, "and stake the other 4000 upon the red again." I did so. "Rouge!" proclaimed the croupier. "Twelve thousand!" cried the old lady. "Hand me the whole lot. Put the gold into this purse here, and count the bank notes. Enough! Let us go home. Wheel my chair away." XI The chair, with the old lady beaming in it, was wheeled away towards the doors at the further end of the salon, while our party hastened to crowd around her, and to offer her their congratulations. In fact, eccentric as was her conduct, it was also overshadowed by her triumph; with the result that the General no longer feared to be publicly compromised by being seen with such a strange woman, but, smiling in a condescending, cheerfully familiar way, as though he were soothing a child, he offered his greetings to the old lady. At the same time, both he and the rest of the spectators were visibly impressed. Everywhere people kept pointing to the Grandmother, and talking about her. Many people even walked beside her chair, in order to view her the better while, at a little distance, Astley was carrying on a conversation on the subject with two English acquaintances of his. De Griers was simply overflowing with smiles and compliments, and a number of fine ladies were staring at the Grandmother as though she had been something curious. "Quelle victoire!" exclaimed De Griers. "Mais, Madame, c tait du feu!" added Mlle. Blanche with an elusive smile. "Yes, I have won twelve thousand florins," replied the old lady. "And then there is all this gold. With it the total ought to come to nearly thirteen thousand. How much is that in Russian money? Six thousand roubles, I think?" However, I calculated that the sum would exceed seven thousand roubles or, at the present rate of exchange, even eight thousand. "Eight thousand roubles! What a splendid thing! And to think of you simpletons sitting there and doing nothing! Potapitch! Martha! See what I have won!" "How _did_ you do it, Madame?" Martha exclaimed ecstatically. "Eight thousand roubles!" "And I am going to give you fifty g lden apiece. There they are." Potapitch and Martha rushed towards her to kiss her hand. "And to each bearer also I will give a ten-g lden piece. Let them have it out of the gold, Alexis Ivanovitch. But why is this footman bowing to me, and that other man as well? Are they congratulating me? Well, let them have ten g lden apiece." "Madame la princesse Un pauvre expatri Malheur continuel Les princes russes sont si g n reux!" said a man who for some time past had been hanging around the old lady s chair a personage who, dressed in a shabby frockcoat and coloured waistcoat, kept taking off his cap, and smiling pathetically. "Give him ten g lden," said the Grandmother. "No, give him twenty. Now, enough of that, or I shall never get done with you all. Take a moment s rest, and then carry me away. Prascovia, I mean to buy a new dress for you tomorrow. Yes, and for you too, Mlle. Blanche. Please translate, Prascovia." "Merci, Madame," replied Mlle. Blanche gratefully as she twisted her face into the mocking smile which usually she kept only for the benefit of De Griers and the General. The latter looked confused, and seemed greatly relieved when we reached the Avenue. "How surprised Theodosia too will be!" went on the Grandmother (thinking of the General s nursemaid). "She, like yourselves, shall have the price of a new gown. Here, Alexis Ivanovitch! Give that beggar something" (a crooked-backed ragamuffin had approached to stare at us). "But perhaps he is _not_ a beggar only a rascal," I replied. "Never mind, never mind. Give him a g lden." I approached the beggar in question, and handed him the coin. Looking at me in great astonishment, he silently accepted the g lden, while from his person there proceeded a strong smell of liquor. "Have you never tried your luck, Alexis Ivanovitch?" "No, Madame." "Yet just now I could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch," said the old lady, "after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling of apprehension and growing paralysis that the conspirators viewed any future performances of the old lady at roulette. Yet this second factor was not quite so important as the first, since, though the Grandmother had twice declared that she did not intend to give the General any money, that declaration was not a complete ground for the abandonment of hope. Certainly De Griers, who, with the General, was up to the neck in the affair, had not wholly lost courage; and I felt sure that Mlle. Blanche also Mlle. Blanche who was not only as deeply involved as the other two, but also expectant of becoming Madame General and an important legatee would not lightly surrender the position, but would use her every resource of coquetry upon the old lady, in order to afford a contrast to the impetuous Polina, who was difficult to understand, and lacked the art of pleasing. Yet now, when the Grandmother had just performed an astonishing feat at roulette; now, when the old lady s personality had been so clearly and typically revealed as that of a rugged, arrogant woman who was "tomb e en enfance"; now, when everything appeared to be lost, why, now the Grandmother was as merry as a child which plays with thistle-down. "Good Lord!" I thought with, may God forgive me, a most malicious smile, "every ten-g lden piece which the Grandmother staked must have
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Madame, c tait du feu!" added Mlle. Blanche with an elusive smile. "Yes, I have won twelve thousand florins," replied the old lady. "And then there is all this gold. With it the total ought to come to nearly thirteen thousand. How much is that in Russian money? Six thousand roubles, I think?" However, I calculated that the sum would exceed seven thousand roubles or, at the present rate of exchange, even eight thousand. "Eight thousand roubles! What a splendid thing! And to think of you simpletons sitting there and doing nothing! Potapitch! Martha! See what I have won!" "How _did_ you do it, Madame?" Martha exclaimed ecstatically. "Eight thousand roubles!" "And I am going to give you fifty g lden apiece. There they are." Potapitch and Martha rushed towards her to kiss her hand. "And to each bearer also I will give a ten-g lden piece. Let them have it out of the gold, Alexis Ivanovitch. But why is this footman bowing to me, and that other man as well? Are they congratulating me? Well, let them have ten g lden apiece." "Madame la princesse Un pauvre expatri Malheur continuel Les princes russes sont si g n reux!" said a man who for some time past had been hanging around the old lady s chair a personage who, dressed in a shabby frockcoat and coloured waistcoat, kept taking off his cap, and smiling pathetically. "Give him ten g lden," said the Grandmother. "No, give him twenty. Now, enough of that, or I shall never get done with you all. Take a moment s rest, and then carry me away. Prascovia, I mean to buy a new dress for you tomorrow. Yes, and for you too, Mlle. Blanche. Please translate, Prascovia." "Merci, Madame," replied Mlle. Blanche gratefully as she twisted her face into the mocking smile which usually she kept only for the benefit of De Griers and the General. The latter looked confused, and seemed greatly relieved when we reached the Avenue. "How surprised Theodosia too will be!" went on the Grandmother (thinking of the General s nursemaid). "She, like yourselves, shall have the price of a new gown. Here, Alexis Ivanovitch! Give that beggar something" (a crooked-backed ragamuffin had approached to stare at us). "But perhaps he is _not_ a beggar only a rascal," I replied. "Never mind, never mind. Give him a g lden." I approached the beggar in question, and handed him the coin. Looking at me in great astonishment, he silently accepted the g lden, while from his person there proceeded a strong smell of liquor. "Have you never tried your luck, Alexis Ivanovitch?" "No, Madame." "Yet just now I could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General.<|quote|>"C est une terrible vieille."</|quote|>"Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch," said the old lady, "after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling
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The Gambler
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_Splash_!
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No speaker
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the bulwark into the sea.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>A moment's pause and then--
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head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>A moment's pause and then-- _Splash_! Jem had followed suit,
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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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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
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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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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
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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!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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,
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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!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking. "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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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 for help!" "No, sir." "What was it, then?" "Beg pardon, sir; but I think it was one on 'em a-larfin'." The captain gave the speaker--one of the warrant officers--a furious look. "Now, then, is that boat going to be all night?" he shouted. "All ready, sir. Lower away." The boat kissed the sea with a faint splash; she was thrust off; and as the oars dropped and the men gave way the cutter went rapidly through the water, at a rate which would have soon made the fugitives prisoners but for the fact that boat and swimmers were taking different directions, and the distance between them increased at every stroke. "They've taken no lanthorn!" cried the captain. "Surely no one's orders were ever worse obeyed." "Shall I call them back, sir?" said the second lieutenant. "No, no; let them find it out for themselves. Here, marines, ten of you load. Quick, my lads, clear the way from up here." "Make ready, take good aim at the scoundrels--present--fire!" This time the whole of the pieces went off with a loud rattle, which brought lights out in the New Zealand village, and a buzz of excitement came from the men. "More lanthorns there!" cried the captain. "See them?" he cried, to the officer in the boat. "Not yet, sir." "Take a sweep round to the southward. They're more there." "Ay, ay, sir!" came faintly out of the darkness; and the dull rattle of the oars reached those on deck. "I'll have those two back, dead or alive!" cried the captain, stamping about in his rage. "Pipe down the second cutter." His orders were obeyed, and in a short time, with a lanthorn in bow and stern, the second boat touched the water, and rowed off, the officer in command receiving instructions to bear off more still to the southward, and finally sweep round so as to meet the first boat. Directly this was started a happy thought seemed to strike the captain,
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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.<|quote|>_Splash_!</|quote|>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
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Don Lavington
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The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.
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No speaker
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enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?"
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without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You
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"You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken,
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offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going
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for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform
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irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform you," said Syme with restraint, "that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something." "It means everything," said the other, "and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand." "Us!" repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. "What do you mean by us'?" "The police, of course!" said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face. The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale. "I am Inspector Ratcliffe," he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. "My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card," and he began
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all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. "After all," he said to himself, "I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train. He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped. Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh. "Stop!" said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. "I want to say something." "What is the matter?" asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. "Has there been foul play?" "There has been foul play somewhere," said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. "Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform you," said Syme with restraint, "that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something." "It means everything," said the other, "and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand." "Us!" repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. "What do you mean by us'?" "The police, of course!" said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face. The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale. "I am Inspector Ratcliffe," he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. "My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card," and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket. The Professor gave a tired gesture. "Oh, don't show it us," he said wearily; "we've got enough of them to equip a paper-chase." The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis. "Gentlemen," he said, "we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy, but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism, which holds it holy to destroy mankind like vermin. How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologise, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer." The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said "Of course, I accept the apology; but you will in your turn forgive me if I decline to follow you further into your difficulties, and permit myself to say good morning! The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day. Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town." Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out "No, by George! I won't. If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I'll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can't fight
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least, and he is none the worse." The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience. "Please let me speak," he said. "It is rather important. Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, "we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train." "I protest that this is most irregular," said Dr. Bull indignantly. "It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent," said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. "There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon." "Will you or will you not pull my nose?" said the Marquis in exasperation. "Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don't be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!" and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill. Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand. He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene. The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice. "If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow," he said, "he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage. "If I had known," he spluttered, "that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight" "Oh, I know, I know!" said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. "You are making a mistake; but it can't be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!" "Yes," said Dr. Bull fiercely, "and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil's work"<|quote|>The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.</|quote|>"Will you drive me mad?" he cried. "The train" "You shall not go by the train," said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword. The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking. "You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!" he said without taking breath. "You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You" "You shall not go by this train," repeated Syme. "And why the infernal blazes," roared the other, "should I want to go by the train?" "We know all," said the Professor sternly. "You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!" "Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!" cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. "Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don't realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!" "Then what did you care about?" began the Professor. "What did I care about? I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me." "I regret to inform you," said Syme with restraint, "that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something." "It means everything," said the other, "and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand." "Us!" repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. "What do you mean by us'?" "The police, of course!" said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face. The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale. "I am Inspector Ratcliffe," he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. "My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card," and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket. The Professor gave a tired gesture. "Oh, don't show it us," he said wearily; "we've got enough of them to equip a paper-chase." The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis. "Gentlemen," he said, "we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy, but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism,
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The Man Who Was Thursday
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"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"
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Hercule Poirot
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was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You
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from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs.
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have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do
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lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That
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of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase." "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him." "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were
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objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase." "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him." "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money." "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different _d nouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the
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scene, for before that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and would have seen anyone who passed going to the right wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters the room, unlocking the door by means of one of the other doorkeys they were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case it is locked, and the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him, for it means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had hoped. But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for." "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase." "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him." "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money." "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different _d nouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered." "I don't quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence." "Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried. "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia." "But why should he shield her?" "Because he is in love with her." I laughed. "There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her." "Who told you that, _mon ami?_" "Cynthia herself." "_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?" "She said that she did not mind at all." "Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked Poirot. "They are like that _les femmes!_" "What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me," I said. "But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped
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them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase." "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him." "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?"<|quote|>"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?"</|quote|>"Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money." "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different _d nouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered." "I don't quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence." "Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"
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Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don
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right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest
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He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like,
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impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other s manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson." He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far." "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare s-nest which he may choose to construct.
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is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man" "Ah! the other man ?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other s manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson." He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far." "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3, Pinchin Lane, down near the water s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer s: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you." "A dog, I suppose." "Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would rather have Toby s help
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it is partly open." "It was I who opened it." "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!" "Yes, sir," from the passage. "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen s name as being concerned in the death of your brother." "There, now! Didn t I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us. "Don t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think that I can engage to clear you of the charge." "Don t promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don t promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you think." "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man" "Ah! the other man ?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other s manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson." He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far." "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3, Pinchin Lane, down near the water s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer s: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you." "A dog, I suppose." "Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would rather have Toby s help than that of the whole detective force of London." "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse." "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones s methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms." _Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen verh hnen was sie nicht verstehen._ "Goethe is always pithy." Chapter VII The Episode of the Barrel The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since that she thought me cold
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I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How s that?" "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside." "Hum! There s a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto _was_ with his brother; there _was_ a quarrel; so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance is well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him." "You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the man s scalp where you still see the mark; this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into your theory?" "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously. "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus, a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door. "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l esprit!_" "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again. "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is partly open." "It was I who opened it." "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!" "Yes, sir," from the passage. "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen s name as being concerned in the death of your brother." "There, now! Didn t I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us. "Don t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think that I can engage to clear you of the charge." "Don t promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don t promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you think." "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man" "Ah! the other man ?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other s manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson." He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far." "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3, Pinchin Lane, down near the water s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer s: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you." "A dog, I suppose." "Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would rather have Toby s help than that of the whole detective force of London." "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse." "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones s methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms." _Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen verh hnen was sie nicht verstehen._ "Goethe is always pithy." Chapter VII The Episode of the Barrel The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes s researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honourable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us. It was nearly two o clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester s. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other s waist and how motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honoured friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall-light shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us. And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the
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you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into your theory?" "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously. "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus, a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door. "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l esprit!_" "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again. "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is partly open." "It was I who opened it." "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!" "Yes, sir," from the passage. "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen s name as being concerned in the death of your brother." "There, now! Didn t I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us. "Don t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think that I can engage to clear you of the charge." "Don t promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don t promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you think." "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man" "Ah! the other man ?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other s manner. "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Watson." He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of our journey." "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."<|quote|>"No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"</|quote|>"By no means. I don t think I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far." "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3, Pinchin Lane, down near the water s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer s: Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you." "A dog, I suppose." "Yes, a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would rather have Toby s help than that of the whole detective force of London." "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse." "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones s methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms." _Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen verh hnen was sie nicht verstehen._ "Goethe is always pithy." Chapter VII The Episode of the Barrel The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping, so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes s researches were successful, she would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honourable, that
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Yes."
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Margaret
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the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted.
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the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the
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to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main
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s hair so." "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" "Look! My hands have stopped trembling." "And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End. (We re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn t you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she
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not a single word; he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, "I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my colours." And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. "I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying. "Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me now." "I was meaning to act for the best." "Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one s hair so." "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" "Look! My hands have stopped trembling." "And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End. (We re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn t you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family? "Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added: "Though she did resent my husband s immorality." "She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very charming girl." Margaret s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that
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I don t believe your driver really saw her at the station. I wish I d never mentioned it. I know that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is--" She seized Dolly s hand and kissed it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. There. Now we ll be off." Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. "Don t you want to tidy yourself?" he asked. "Have I time?" "Yes, plenty." She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: "Dolly, I m going without her." Dolly s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out to the car. "Tell her I thought it best." "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see." "Say anything you like. All right." The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word; he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, "I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my colours." And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. "I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying. "Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me now." "I was meaning to act for the best." "Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one s hair so." "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" "Look! My hands have stopped trembling." "And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End. (We re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn t you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family? "Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added: "Though she did resent my husband s immorality." "She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very charming girl." Margaret s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the name of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all Schlegels were threatened with her. "Were they normal?" What a question to ask! And it is always those who know nothing about human nature, who are bored by psychology--and shocked by physiology, who ask it. However piteous her sister s state, she knew that she must be on her side. They would be mad together if the world chose to consider them so. It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting in the porch, with her back to the road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she
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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, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village, and had a few minutes serious conversation with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know--perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to Howards End. "She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will be her books." "I cannot make it out," said Margaret for the hundredth time. "Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off." "Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty," said Dolly. Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which he did not answer. In the silence the motor came round to the door. "You re not fit for it," he said anxiously. "Let me go alone. I know exactly what to do." "Oh yes, I am fit," said Margaret, uncovering her face. "Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have come from some one else. Her voice isn t in them. I don t believe your driver really saw her at the station. I wish I d never mentioned it. I know that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is--" She seized Dolly s hand and kissed it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. There. Now we ll be off." Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. "Don t you want to tidy yourself?" he asked. "Have I time?" "Yes, plenty." She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: "Dolly, I m going without her." Dolly s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out to the car. "Tell her I thought it best." "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see." "Say anything you like. All right." The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word; he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, "I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my colours." And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. "I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying. "Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me now." "I was meaning to act for the best." "Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one s hair so." "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" "Look! My hands have stopped trembling." "And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End. (We re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn t you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family? "Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added: "Though she did resent my husband s immorality." "She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very charming girl." Margaret s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the name of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all Schlegels were threatened with her. "Were they normal?" What a question to ask! And it is always those who know nothing about human nature, who are bored by psychology--and shocked by physiology, who ask it. However piteous her sister s state, she knew that she must be on her side. They would be mad together if the world chose to consider them so. It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed down by the farm, in the yard of which Miss Avery was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting in the porch, with her back to the road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. The wind ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always been. Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her husband could prevent her, she slipped out. She ran to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar movement, and, rushing into the porch, learnt the simple explanation of all their fears--her sister was with child. "Is the truant all right?" called Henry. She had time to whisper: "Oh, my darling--" The keys of the house were in her hand. She unlocked Howards End and thrust Helen into it. "Yes, all right," she said, and stood with her back to the door. CHAPTER XXXVI "Margaret, you look upset!" said Henry. Mansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them; she could not speak any more. She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended on them. Henry was asking more questions. She shook her head again. His words had no sense. She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. "You might have given me a knock with the gate," was another of his remarks. Presently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said, "Go away." Henry came nearer. He repeated, "Margaret, you look upset again. My dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?" "Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all." "Manage what?" He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had not been for the doctor. "Stop that at least," she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and was questioning the driver of Helen s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body. "Come, this is an odd beginning," said her husband. The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. "I cannot help it," said Margaret. "Do wait. It s not my fault. Please all four of you go away now." Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. "We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox," said the young doctor. "Could you
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as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: "Dolly, I m going without her." Dolly s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out to the car. "Tell her I thought it best." "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see." "Say anything you like. All right." The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word; he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She thought, "I deserve it; I am punished for lowering my colours." And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. "I still consider you are not fit for it," he kept saying. "Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me now." "I was meaning to act for the best." "Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one s hair so." "Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?" "Look! My hands have stopped trembling." "And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived at Howards End. (We re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman" "--he pointed at Crane s back--" "won t drive in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of the house?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"Well, they aren t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?" "Yes." "If we don t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our object--" Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. "I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently nervous--wouldn t you say so, Margaret?" The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that was likely to alienate her from her family? "Nothing," answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had added: "Though she did resent my husband s immorality." "She always was highly strung," pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it shot past the church. "A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal--a very charming girl." Margaret s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that
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Howards End
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"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"
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Eleanor Tilney
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downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but
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the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they
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was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had
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last within the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there,
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reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going? And what was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice? And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling. "Yes, entirely." "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?" "She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. "You were with her, I suppose, to the last?" "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing;
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gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton." She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going? And what was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice? And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling. "Yes, entirely." "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?" "She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. "You were with her, I suppose, to the last?" "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over." Catherine s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry s father ? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney s notice. "My father," she whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual." "So much the worse!" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good. After an evening,
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produced the perfection wanted. His endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high among the benefactors of the convent. With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state, been removed by the general s father, and the present erected in its place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland s, a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from such as she had read about from abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton." She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going? And what was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice? And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling. "Yes, entirely." "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?" "She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. "You were with her, I suppose, to the last?" "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over." Catherine s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry s father ? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney s notice. "My father," she whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual." "So much the worse!" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good. After an evening, the little variety and seeming length of which made her peculiarly sensible of Henry s importance among them, she was heartily glad to be dismissed; though it was a look from the general not designed for her observation which sent his daughter to the bell. When the butler would have lit his master s candle, however, he was forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. "I have many pamphlets to finish," said he to Catherine, "before I can close my eyes, and perhaps may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? _My_ eyes will be blinding for the good of others, and _yours_ preparing by rest for future mischief." But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment, could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours, after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely. There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could be done only while the household slept; and the probability that Mrs. Tilney yet lived, shut up for causes unknown, and receiving from the pitiless hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food, was the conclusion which necessarily followed. Shocking as was the idea, it was at least better than a death unfairly hastened, as, in the natural course of things, she must ere long be released. The suddenness of her reputed illness, the absence of her daughter, and probably of her other children, at the time all favoured the supposition of her imprisonment. Its origin jealousy perhaps, or wanton cruelty was yet to be unravelled. In revolving these matters, while she undressed, it suddenly struck her as not unlikely that she might that morning have passed near the very spot of this unfortunate woman s confinement might have been within a few paces of the cell in which she languished out her days; for what part of the abbey could be more fitted for the purpose than that which yet bore the traces of monastic division? In the high-arched passage, paved with stone, which already she had trodden with peculiar awe, she well remembered the doors of which the general had given no account. To what might not those doors lead? In
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this was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements from such as she had read about from abbeys and castles, in which, though certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by two pair of female hands at the utmost. How they could get through it all had often amazed Mrs. Allen; and, when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she began to be amazed herself. They returned to the hall, that the chief staircase might be ascended, and the beauty of its wood, and ornaments of rich carving might be pointed out: having gained the top, they turned in an opposite direction from the gallery in which her room lay, and shortly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and breadth. She was here shown successively into three large bed-chambers, with their dressing-rooms, most completely and handsomely fitted up; everything that money and taste could do, to give comfort and elegance to apartments, had been bestowed on these; and, being furnished within the last five years, they were perfect in all that would be generally pleasing, and wanting in all that could give pleasure to Catherine. As they were surveying the last, the general, after slightly naming a few of the distinguished characters by whom they had at times been honoured, turned with a smiling countenance to Catherine, and ventured to hope that henceforward some of their earliest tenants might be "our friends from Fullerton." She felt the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full of civility to all her family. The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney, advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and, as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether she were going? And what was there more to be seen? Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice? And did she not suppose her friend might be glad of some refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Tilney drew back directly, and the heavy doors were closed upon the mortified Catherine, who, having seen, in a momentary glance beyond them, a narrower passage, more numerous openings, and symptoms of a winding staircase, believed herself at last within the reach of something worth her notice; and felt, as she unwillingly paced back the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine that end of the house than see all the finery of all the rest. The general s evident desire of preventing such an examination was an additional stimulant. Something was certainly to be concealed; her fancy, though it had trespassed lately once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was, a short sentence of Miss Tilney s, as they followed the general at some distance downstairs, seemed to point out:<|quote|>"I was going to take you into what was my mother s room the room in which she died"</|quote|>were all her words; but few as they were, they conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left him to the stings of conscience. She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house; and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling. "Yes, entirely." "And how long ago may it be that your mother died?" "She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights. "You were with her, I suppose, to the last?" "No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I was unfortunately from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over." Catherine s blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry s father ? And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions! And, when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend, slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent thoughtfulness, with downcast eyes and contracted brow, she felt secure from all possibility of wronging him. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the anxiousness of her spirits directed her eyes towards his figure so repeatedly, as to catch Miss Tilney s notice. "My father," she whispered, "often walks about the room in this way; it is nothing unusual." "So much the worse!" thought Catherine; such ill-timed exercise was of a piece with the strange unseasonableness of his morning walks, and boded nothing good. After an evening, the little variety and seeming
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Northanger Abbey
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"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"
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Brett Ashley
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absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they
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watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't
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of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the
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the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters
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come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see
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go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them," she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded
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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 Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them," she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape. "Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends. He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth. Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot. "What's that for?" Brett asked. "To give it weight in the wind." "His face looks bad," Bill said. "He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed." The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good. Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting
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a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.<|quote|>"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas,"</|quote|>she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors. Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone. The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. "Here, take them," she said. Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape. "Spread it out in front of you," I said. Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside me leaned over toward Brett. "He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap." Brett folded the heavy cape. Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte. Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to
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The Sun Also Rises
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"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"
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Jem Wimble
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the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think
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stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much
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you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time
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are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept
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a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say,
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laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul air, and not daring to go to the mouth of the cave for fear of being seen, till Don suggested that they should steal there cautiously, and lie down with their faces beyond the cavern floor. This they did, glad of the restful change; but hours passed and no sounds met their ears, save the hissing
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able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul air, and not daring to go to the mouth of the cave for fear of being seen, till Don suggested that they should steal there cautiously, and lie down with their faces beyond the cavern floor. This they did, glad of the restful change; but hours passed and no sounds met their ears, save the hissing and gurgling from the interior of the cave, and the harsh screech of some parrot or cockatoo. Every time a louder hiss than usual came from the interior, Jem became convulsed, and threatened another explosion of laughter, in spite of Don's severely reproachful looks; but in every case Jem's mirthful looks and his comic ways of trying to suppress his hilarity proved to be too much for Don, who was fain to join in, and they both laughed heartily and well. It is a curious fact, one perhaps which doctors can explain, and it seems paradoxical. For it might be supposed that when any one was hungry he would feel low-spirited, but all the same there is a stage in hunger when everything around the sufferer seems to wear a comic aspect, and the least thing sets him off laughing. This was the stage now with Jem and Don, for, the danger being past, they lay there at the mouth of the hole, now laughing at the recollection of the sailor's fright, now at the cries of some parrot or the antics of a cockatoo which kept sailing round a large tree, whose hold on the steep rocky side of the ravine was precarious in the extreme. The presence of white people seemed to cause the bird the greatest of wonder, and to pique his curiosity, and after a flit here and a flit there, he invariably came near and sat upon a bare branch, from which he could study the aspect of the two intruders. He was a lovely-looking bird as far as the tints of the plumage went; but his short hooked beak, with a tuft of feathers each side, and forward curved crest, gave him a droll aspect which delighted Jem, as the bird came and sat upon a twig, shrieking and chattering at them in a state of the greatest excitement. "Look at his starshers, Mas' Don," said Jem, as the bird's side tufts half covered the beak and then left it bare. "Look at his hair, too. Hasn't he brushed it up in a point? There, he heared what I said, and has laid it down again. Look at him! Look at him! Did you ever see such a rum one in your life?" For at that minute, after turning its head on one side for a good look, and then on the other, so
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dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such a noise as a mythical dragon might have made when a stranger had invaded his home. The effect was instantaneous. The young sailor spun round and darted back to the mouth of the cave, where he half lowered himself down over the shelf facing toward the entry, and supporting himself with one hand, shook his fist. "You wait till I come back with a lanthorn!" he cried. "I'll just show you. Don't you think I'm scared." _Whos-s-s-s-s_ came that hissing again, in a loud deep tone this time, and the sailor's head disappeared, for he dropped down and hastily descended after his messmates, flushed and excited, but trying hard to look perfectly unconcerned, and thoroughly determined to keep his own counsel as to what he had heard, from a perfect faith in the effect of the disclosure--to wit, that his companions would laugh at him. Inside the cave Jem was leaning up against the wall, making strange noises and lifting up first one foot and then the other. He seemed to be suffering agonies, for he puffed and gasped. "Jem, be quiet!" whispered Don, shaking him sharply. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" groaned Jem, lifting up his bare feet alternately, and setting them down again with a loud pat on the rock. "Be quiet! They may hear you." "Hit me then! Give it me. Ho, ho, ho!" "Jem, we are safe now, and you'll undo it all if you're not quiet." "Knock me then, Mas' Don. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Hi: me; a good un, dear lad. Ho, ho, ho, ho!" "Oh, do be quiet! How can you be such an ass?" "I dunno! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Did you see him run, Mas' Don? I--oh dear, I can't help it. Do knock me down and sit on me, dear lad--I never--oh dear me!" Jem laughed till Don grew angry, and then the sturdy little fellow stopped short and stood wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.<|quote|>"I couldn't help it, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>he said. "I don't think I ever laughed so much before. There, I'm better now. Shan't have any more laugh in me for a twelvemonth. Hiss! Whoss-s-s!" He made the two sounds again, and burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter at the success of his ruse; but this time Don caught him by the throat, and he stopped at once. "Hah!" he ejaculated, and wiped his eyes again. "Thankye, Mas' Don; that's just what you ought to ha' done before. There, it's all over now. What are you going to do?" "Watch them," said Don, laconically; and he crept to the mouth of the cave, and peered cautiously over the edge of the shelf, but all was quiet; and beyond a distant hail or two, heard after listening for some minutes, there was nothing to indicate that the search party had been there. "We must be well on the look-out, Jem. Your stupid trick may bring them back." "Stoopid? Well, I do like that, Mas' Don, after saving us both as I did." "I'd say let's go on at once, only we might meet some of them." "And old `My pakeha' wouldn't know where to find us. I say, Mas' Don, what are we going to do? Stop here with these people, and old Tomati, or go on at once and shift for ourselves?" "We cannot shift for ourselves in a country like this without some way of getting food." "Hush!" exclaimed Jem sharply. "What's the matter?" cried Don, making for the inner part of their hiding-place. "No, no; don't do that. It's all right, Mas' Don, only don't say anything more about food. I feel just now as if I could eat you. It's horrid how hungry I am." "You see then," said Don, "how helpless we are." "Yes; if it was only a biscuit I wouldn't mind just now, for there don't seem to be nothing to eat here, nor nothing to drink." They stood leaning against the rocky wall, not caring to risk sitting down on account of the foul air, and not daring to go to the mouth of the cave for fear of being seen, till Don suggested
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Don Lavington
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suddenly cried Sikes aloud.
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No speaker
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once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the
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this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead
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short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at
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he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared
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beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up. "Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. "Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!" Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard
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glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up. "Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. "Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!" Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard no more. CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world. Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down
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cautiously towards the house. And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees. "Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket; "Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass." "Oh! for God's sake let me go!" cried Oliver; "let me run away and die in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!" The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house. "Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night." Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges. It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up. "Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. "Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!" Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard no more. CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world. Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased, so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled. "Well!" said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire; "I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!" Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea. How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand. "Drat the pot!" said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; "a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except," said Mrs. Corney, pausing, "except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!" With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered. "I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; "I shall never get another like him." Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door. "Oh, come in with you!" said Mrs. Corney, sharply. "Some of the old women dying, I suppose. They always die
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a half above the ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also. "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in." "There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. "Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms." "Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room-door is open, is it?" "Wide," replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. "The game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night. So neat!" Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside. "Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs afore you?" Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant. "It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!" "What's that?" whispered the other man. They listened intently. "Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!" In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily. "Come back!"<|quote|>suddenly cried Sikes aloud.</|quote|>"Back! back!" Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly. The cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise a smoke a crash somewhere, but where he knew not, and he staggered back. Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up. "Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. "Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!" Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard no more. CHAPTER XXIII. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world. Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with
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Oliver Twist
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"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"
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John Cavendish
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cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day
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you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in
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the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She
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blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish.
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a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away." As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach. "Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard." Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them. She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad
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As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now." "Cynthia! That's not your wife?" "No, Cynthia is a prot g e of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away." As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach. "Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard." Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them. She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist. At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand: "Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there's the Duchess about the school f te." There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply: "Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear." The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on
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his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them." "You were going to say ?" "Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car. "Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities." The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now." "Cynthia! That's not your wife?" "No, Cynthia is a prot g e of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away." As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach. "Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard." Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them. She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist. At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand: "Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there's the Duchess about the school f te." There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply: "Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear." The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner. Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion. "Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings my husband." I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said: "This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife: "Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp." She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman! With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd. Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice: "Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?" "No, before the war I was in Lloyd's." "And you will return there after it is over?" "Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether." Mary Cavendish leant forward. "What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?" "Well, that depends." "No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me you're drawn to something? Everyone is usually something absurd." "You'll laugh at me." She smiled. "Perhaps." "Well, I've always had a
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down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car. "Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities." The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now." "Cynthia! That's not your wife?" "No, Cynthia is a prot g e of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away." As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach. "Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard." Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.<|quote|>"Where's tea to-day inside or out?"</|quote|>"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them. She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist. At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand: "Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there's the Duchess about the school f te." There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply: "Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear." The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner. Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion. "Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings my husband." I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."
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Cyril Fielding
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you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it
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I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to
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an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid
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is guilty, which is what your friends think; or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you have had an hallucination. I'm very much inclined" getting up and striding about "now that you tell me that you felt unwell before the expedition it's an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened it doesn't matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the
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see, I have been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and possibly before it." The remark interested him rather; it was what he had sometimes suspected himself. "What kind of illness?" he enquired. She touched her head at the side, then shook it. "That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: hallucination." "Do you think that would be so?" she asked with great humility. "What should have given me an hallucination?" "One of three things certainly happened in the Marabar," he said, getting drawn into a discussion against his will. "One of four things. Either Aziz is guilty, which is what your friends think; or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you have had an hallucination. I'm very much inclined" getting up and striding about "now that you tell me that you felt unwell before the expedition it's an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened it doesn't matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks or hurts me) you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the sort of thing though in an awful form that makes some women think they've had an offer of marriage when none was made." "You put it honestly, anyhow." "I was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets me nowhere." Liking her better, he smiled and said, "It'll get us to heaven." "Will it?" "If heaven existed." "Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I ask?" she said, looking at him shyly. "I do not. Yet I believe
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met and had the first of their numerous curious conversations. He had hoped, when he woke up, to find someone had fetched her away, but the College remained isolated from the rest of the universe. She asked whether she could have "a sort of interview," and, when he made no reply, said, "Have you any explanation of my extraordinary behaviour?" "None," he said curtly. "Why make such a charge if you were going to withdraw it?" "Why, indeed." "I ought to feel grateful to you, I suppose, but" "I don't expect gratitude. I only thought you might care to hear what I have to say." "Oh, well," he grumbled, feeling rather schoolboyish. "I don't think a discussion between us is desirable. To put it frankly, I belong to the other side in this ghastly affair." "Would it not interest you to hear my side?" "Not much." "I shouldn't tell you in confidence, of course. So you can hand on all my remarks to your side, for there is one great mercy that has come out of all to-day's misery: I have no longer any secrets. My echo has gone I call the buzzing sound in my ears an echo. You see, I have been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and possibly before it." The remark interested him rather; it was what he had sometimes suspected himself. "What kind of illness?" he enquired. She touched her head at the side, then shook it. "That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: hallucination." "Do you think that would be so?" she asked with great humility. "What should have given me an hallucination?" "One of three things certainly happened in the Marabar," he said, getting drawn into a discussion against his will. "One of four things. Either Aziz is guilty, which is what your friends think; or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you have had an hallucination. I'm very much inclined" getting up and striding about "now that you tell me that you felt unwell before the expedition it's an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened it doesn't matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks or hurts me) you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the sort of thing though in an awful form that makes some women think they've had an offer of marriage when none was made." "You put it honestly, anyhow." "I was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets me nowhere." Liking her better, he smiled and said, "It'll get us to heaven." "Will it?" "If heaven existed." "Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I ask?" she said, looking at him shyly. "I do not. Yet I believe that honesty gets us there." "How can that be?" "Let us go back to hallucinations. I was watching you carefully through your evidence this morning, and if I'm right, the hallucination (what you call half pressure quite as good a word) disappeared suddenly." She tried to remember what she had felt in court, but could not; the vision disappeared whenever she wished to interpret it. "Events presented themselves to me in their logical sequence," was what she said, but it hadn't been that at all. "My belief and of course I was listening carefully, in hope you would make some slip my belief is that poor McBryde exorcised you. As soon as he asked you a straightforward question, you gave a straightforward answer, and broke down." "Exorcise in that sense. I thought you meant I'd seen a ghost." "I don't go to that length!" "People whom I respect very much believe in ghosts," she said rather sharply. "My friend Mrs. Moore does." "She's an old lady." "I think you need not be impolite to her, as well as to her son." "I did not intend to be rude. I only meant it is difficult, as we get on in life,
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such a man. Of ignoble origin, Dr. Panna Lal possessed nothing that could be disgraced, and he wisely decided to make the other Indians feel like kings, because it would put them into better tempers. When he found they wanted Nureddin, he skipped like a goat, he scuttled like a hen to do their bidding, the hospital was saved, and to the end of his life he could not understand why he had not obtained promotion on the morning's work. "Promptness, sir, promptness similar to you," was the argument he employed to Major Callendar when claiming it. When Nureddin emerged, his face all bandaged, there was a roar of relief as though the Bastille had fallen. It was the crisis of the march, and the Nawab Bahadur managed to get the situation into hand. Embracing the young man publicly, he began a speech about Justice, Courage, Liberty, and Prudence, ranged under heads, which cooled the passion of the crowd. He further announced that he should give up his British-conferred title, and live as a private gentleman, plain Mr. Zulfiqar, for which reason he was instantly proceeding to his country seat. The landau turned, the crowd accompanied it, the crisis was over. The Marabar caves had been a terrible strain on the local administration; they altered a good many lives and wrecked several careers, but they did not break up a continent or even dislocate a district. "We will have rejoicings to-night," the old man said. "Mr. Hamidullah, I depute you to bring out our friends Fielding and Amritrao, and to discover whether the latter will require special food. The others will keep with me. We shall not go out to Dilkusha until the cool of the evening, of course. I do not know the feelings of other gentlemen; for my own part, I have a slight headache, and I wish I had thought to ask our good Panna Lal for aspirin." For the heat was claiming its own. Unable to madden, it stupefied, and before long most of the Chandrapore combatants were asleep. Those in the civil station kept watch a little, fearing an attack, but presently they too entered the world of dreams that world in which a third of each man's life is spent, and which is thought by some pessimists to be a premonition of eternity. CHAPTER XXVI Evening approached by the time Fielding and Miss Quested met and had the first of their numerous curious conversations. He had hoped, when he woke up, to find someone had fetched her away, but the College remained isolated from the rest of the universe. She asked whether she could have "a sort of interview," and, when he made no reply, said, "Have you any explanation of my extraordinary behaviour?" "None," he said curtly. "Why make such a charge if you were going to withdraw it?" "Why, indeed." "I ought to feel grateful to you, I suppose, but" "I don't expect gratitude. I only thought you might care to hear what I have to say." "Oh, well," he grumbled, feeling rather schoolboyish. "I don't think a discussion between us is desirable. To put it frankly, I belong to the other side in this ghastly affair." "Would it not interest you to hear my side?" "Not much." "I shouldn't tell you in confidence, of course. So you can hand on all my remarks to your side, for there is one great mercy that has come out of all to-day's misery: I have no longer any secrets. My echo has gone I call the buzzing sound in my ears an echo. You see, I have been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and possibly before it." The remark interested him rather; it was what he had sometimes suspected himself. "What kind of illness?" he enquired. She touched her head at the side, then shook it. "That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: hallucination." "Do you think that would be so?" she asked with great humility. "What should have given me an hallucination?" "One of three things certainly happened in the Marabar," he said, getting drawn into a discussion against his will. "One of four things. Either Aziz is guilty, which is what your friends think; or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you have had an hallucination. I'm very much inclined" getting up and striding about "now that you tell me that you felt unwell before the expedition it's an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened it doesn't matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks or hurts me) you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the sort of thing though in an awful form that makes some women think they've had an offer of marriage when none was made." "You put it honestly, anyhow." "I was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets me nowhere." Liking her better, he smiled and said, "It'll get us to heaven." "Will it?" "If heaven existed." "Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I ask?" she said, looking at him shyly. "I do not. Yet I believe that honesty gets us there." "How can that be?" "Let us go back to hallucinations. I was watching you carefully through your evidence this morning, and if I'm right, the hallucination (what you call half pressure quite as good a word) disappeared suddenly." She tried to remember what she had felt in court, but could not; the vision disappeared whenever she wished to interpret it. "Events presented themselves to me in their logical sequence," was what she said, but it hadn't been that at all. "My belief and of course I was listening carefully, in hope you would make some slip my belief is that poor McBryde exorcised you. As soon as he asked you a straightforward question, you gave a straightforward answer, and broke down." "Exorcise in that sense. I thought you meant I'd seen a ghost." "I don't go to that length!" "People whom I respect very much believe in ghosts," she said rather sharply. "My friend Mrs. Moore does." "She's an old lady." "I think you need not be impolite to her, as well as to her son." "I did not intend to be rude. I only meant it is difficult, as we get on in life, to resist the supernatural. I've felt it coming on me myself. I still jog on without it, but what a temptation, at forty-five, to pretend that the dead live again; one's own dead; no one else's matter." "Because the dead don't live again." "I fear not." "So do I." There was a moment's silence, such as often follows the triumph of rationalism. Then he apologized handsomely enough for his behaviour to Heaslop at the club. "What does Dr. Aziz say of me?" she asked, after another pause. "He he has not been capable of thought in his misery, naturally he's very bitter," said Fielding, a little awkward, because such remarks as Aziz had made were not merely bitter, they were foul. The underlying notion was, "It disgraces me to have been mentioned in connection with such a hag." It enraged him that he had been accused by a woman who had no personal beauty; sexually, he was a snob. This had puzzled and worried Fielding. Sensuality, as long as it is straight-forward, did not repel him, but this derived sensuality the sort that classes a mistress among motor-cars if she is beautiful, and among eye-flies if she isn't was alien to his own emotions, and he felt a barrier between himself and Aziz whenever it arose. It was, in a new form, the old, old trouble that eats the heart out of every civilization: snobbery, the desire for possessions, creditable appendages; and it is to escape this rather than the lusts of the flesh that saints retreat into the Himalayas. To change the subject, he said, "But let me conclude my analysis. We are agreed that he is not a villain and that you are not one, and we aren't really sure that it was an hallucination. There's a fourth possibility which we must touch on: was it somebody else?" "The guide." "Exactly, the guide. I often think so. Unluckily Aziz hit him on the face, and he got a fright and disappeared. It is most unsatisfactory, and we hadn't the police to help us, the guide was of no interest to them." "Perhaps it was the guide," she said quietly; the question had lost interest for her suddenly. "Or could it have been one of that gang of Pathans who have been drifting through the district?" "Someone who was in another cave, and followed me when the guide was
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slight headache, and I wish I had thought to ask our good Panna Lal for aspirin." For the heat was claiming its own. Unable to madden, it stupefied, and before long most of the Chandrapore combatants were asleep. Those in the civil station kept watch a little, fearing an attack, but presently they too entered the world of dreams that world in which a third of each man's life is spent, and which is thought by some pessimists to be a premonition of eternity. CHAPTER XXVI Evening approached by the time Fielding and Miss Quested met and had the first of their numerous curious conversations. He had hoped, when he woke up, to find someone had fetched her away, but the College remained isolated from the rest of the universe. She asked whether she could have "a sort of interview," and, when he made no reply, said, "Have you any explanation of my extraordinary behaviour?" "None," he said curtly. "Why make such a charge if you were going to withdraw it?" "Why, indeed." "I ought to feel grateful to you, I suppose, but" "I don't expect gratitude. I only thought you might care to hear what I have to say." "Oh, well," he grumbled, feeling rather schoolboyish. "I don't think a discussion between us is desirable. To put it frankly, I belong to the other side in this ghastly affair." "Would it not interest you to hear my side?" "Not much." "I shouldn't tell you in confidence, of course. So you can hand on all my remarks to your side, for there is one great mercy that has come out of all to-day's misery: I have no longer any secrets. My echo has gone I call the buzzing sound in my ears an echo. You see, I have been unwell ever since that expedition to the caves, and possibly before it." The remark interested him rather; it was what he had sometimes suspected himself. "What kind of illness?" he enquired. She touched her head at the side, then shook it. "That was my first thought, the day of the arrest: hallucination." "Do you think that would be so?" she asked with great humility. "What should have given me an hallucination?" "One of three things certainly happened in the Marabar," he said, getting drawn into a discussion against his will. "One of four things. Either Aziz is guilty, which is what your friends think; or you invented the charge out of malice, which is what my friends think; or you have had an hallucination. I'm very much inclined" getting up and striding about "now that you tell me that you felt unwell before the expedition it's an important piece of evidence I believe that you yourself broke the strap of the field-glasses; you were alone in that cave the whole time." "Perhaps. . . ." "Can you remember when you first felt out of sorts?" "When I came to tea with you there, in that garden-house."<|quote|>"A somewhat unlucky party. Aziz and old Godbole were both ill after it too."</|quote|>"I was not ill it is far too vague to mention: it is all mixed up with my private affairs. I enjoyed the singing . . . but just about then a sort of sadness began that I couldn't detect at the time . . . no, nothing as solid as sadness: living at half pressure expresses it best. Half pressure. I remember going on to polo with Mr. Heaslop at the Maidan. Various other things happened it doesn't matter what, but I was under par for all of them. I was certainly in that state when I saw the caves, and you suggest (nothing shocks or hurts me) you suggest that I had an hallucination there, the sort of thing though in an awful form that makes some women think they've had an offer of marriage when none was made." "You put it honestly, anyhow." "I was brought up to be honest; the trouble is it gets me nowhere." Liking her better, he smiled and said, "It'll get us to heaven." "Will it?" "If heaven existed." "Do you not believe in heaven, Mr. Fielding, may I ask?" she said, looking at him shyly. "I do not. Yet I believe that honesty gets us there." "How can that be?" "Let us go back to hallucinations. I was watching you carefully through your evidence this morning, and if I'm right, the hallucination (what you call half pressure quite as good a word) disappeared suddenly." She tried to remember what she had felt in court, but could not; the vision disappeared whenever she wished to interpret it. "Events presented themselves to me in their logical sequence," was what she said, but it hadn't been that at all. "My belief and of course I was listening carefully, in hope you would make some slip my belief is that poor McBryde exorcised you. As soon as he asked you a straightforward question, you gave a straightforward answer, and broke down." "Exorcise in that sense. I thought you meant I'd seen a ghost." "I don't go to that length!" "People whom I respect very much believe in ghosts," she said rather sharply. "My friend Mrs. Moore does." "She's an old lady." "I think you need not be impolite to her, as well as to her son." "I did not intend to be rude. I only meant it is difficult, as we get on in life, to resist the supernatural. I've felt it coming on me
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A Passage To India
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"What happened?"
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Jake Barnes
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womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that.
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it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me
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for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know.
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were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter
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disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him.
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"It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't
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off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch. I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and watched the rock and pine country between Avila and Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a compact white sky-line on the top of a little cliff away off across the sun-hardened country. The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. All trains finish there. They don't go on anywhere. Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi coasted down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw the sign HOTEL MONTANA on the second floor. The taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the elevator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: HOTEL MONTANA. I rang and no one came to the door. I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the door. "Is Lady Ashley here?" I asked. She looked at me dully. "Is an Englishwoman here?" She turned and called some one inside. A very fat woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and commanding. "Muy buenos," I said. "Is there an Englishwoman here? I would like to see this English lady." "Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Certainly you can see her if she wishes to see you." "She wishes to see me." "The chica will ask her." "It is very hot." "It is very hot in the summer in Madrid." "And how cold in winter." "Yes, it is very cold in winter." Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel Montana? Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establishment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?" We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid. "I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman. "Right you are, sir. There you are." "Thanks." "I should have asked, you know." The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip. "It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?" "They're all nice bars." "You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that." "Anything you want me to think about it?" "Don't be an ass. _Would_ you buy a lady a drink?" "We'll have two more Martinis." "As they were before, sir?" "They were very good." Brett smiled at him. "Thank you, ma'am." "Well, bung-o," Brett said. "Bung-o!" "You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting." "He's got plenty of time." "I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general." "Well, it was you." "Yes. It was me." "I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it." "How can I help it?" "You'll lose it if you talk about it." "I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake." "You should." "You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch." "Yes." "It's sort of what we have instead of
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of my bags. The maid came in and said that the female English wanted to see the male English now, at once. "Good," I said. "You see. It is as I said." "Clearly." I followed the maid's back down a long, dark corridor. At the end she knocked on a door. "Hello," said Brett. "Is it you, Jake?" "It's me." "Come in. Come in." I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and held the brush in her hand. The room was in that disorder produced only by those who have always had servants. "Darling!" Brett said. I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she was thinking of something else. She was trembling in my arms. She felt very small. "Darling! I've had such a hell of a time." "Tell me about it." "Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made him go." "Why didn't you keep him?" "I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing one does. I don't think I hurt him any." "You were probably damn good for him." "He shouldn't be living with any one. I realized that right away." "No." "Oh, hell!" she said, "let's not talk about it. Let's never talk about it." "All right." "It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He was ashamed of me for a while, you know." "No." "Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf , I guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with long hair. I'd look so like hell." "It's funny." "He said it would make me more womanly. I'd look a fright."<|quote|>"What happened?"</|quote|>"Oh, he got over that. He wasn't ashamed of me long." "What was it about being in trouble?" "I didn't know whether I could make him go, and I didn't have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn't take his money, you know." "No." "Oh, let's not talk about it. There were some funny things, though. Do give me a cigarette." I lit the cigarette. "He learned his English as a waiter in Gib." "Yes." "He wanted to marry me, finally." "Really?" "Of course. I can't even marry Mike." "Maybe he thought that would make him Lord Ashley." "No. It wasn't that. He really wanted to marry me. So I couldn't go away from him, he said. He wanted to make it sure I could never go away from him. After I'd gotten more womanly, of course." "You ought to feel set up." "I do. I'm all right again. He's wiped out that damned Cohn." "Good." "You know I'd have lived with him if I hadn't seen it was bad for him. We got along damned well." "Outside of your personal appearance." "Oh, he'd have gotten used to that." She put out the cigarette. "I'm thirty-four, you know. I'm not going to be one of these bitches that ruins children." "No." "I'm not going to be that way. I feel rather good, you know. I feel rather set up." "Good." She looked away. I thought she was looking for another cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn't look up. I put my arms around her. "Don't let's ever talk about it. Please don't let's ever talk about it." "Dear Brett." "I'm going back to Mike." I could feel her crying as I held her close. "He's so damned nice and he's so awful. He's my sort of thing." She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could feel her shaking. "I won't be one of those bitches," she said. "But, oh, Jake, please let's never talk about it." We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been paid. "Oh, well. Let it go," Brett said. "It doesn't matter now." We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. "It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said. "Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more." "No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice." "It's odd." "Bartenders have always been fine." "You know," Brett said, "it's quite true.
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."
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Harriet
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if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or
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I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come
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volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t
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the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady s room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan t." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C
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the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady s room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan t." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C e il sole." "Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman. "Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don t care for the lot of you. I m English, and neither you ll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby." "La prego-piano-piano-c e un altra signorina che dorme--" "We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?" Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse
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that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady s room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan t." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C e il sole." "Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman. "Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don t care for the lot of you. I m English, and neither you ll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby." "La prego-piano-piano-c e un altra signorina che dorme--" "We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?" Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott. Philip s first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She uttered a shrill cry of joy. "You, Caroline, here of all people!" And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. Philip had an inspiration. "You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I ll pay my call on Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand." Miss Abbott uttered some noise
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that, you ll condemn the whole lot." "I condemn the whole lot." "And the French as well?" "And the French as well." "Things aren t so jolly easy," said Philip, more to himself than to her. But for Harriet things were easy, though not jolly, and she turned upon her brother yet again. "What about the baby, pray? You ve said a lot of smart things and whittled away morality and religion and I don t know what; but what about the baby? You think me a fool, but I ve been noticing you all today, and you haven t mentioned the baby once. You haven t thought about it, even. You don t care. Philip! I shall not speak to you. You are intolerable." She kept her promise, and never opened her lips all the rest of the way. But her eyes glowed with anger and resolution. For she was a straight, brave woman, as well as a peevish one. Philip acknowledged her reproof to be true. He did not care about the baby one straw. Nevertheless, he meant to do his duty, and he was fairly confident of success. If Gino would have sold his wife for a thousand lire, for how much less would he not sell his child? It was just a commercial transaction. Why should it interfere with other things? His eyes were fixed on the towers again, just as they had been fixed when he drove with Miss Abbott. But this time his thoughts were pleasanter, for he had no such grave business on his mind. It was in the spirit of the cultivated tourist that he approached his destination. One of the towers, rough as any other, was topped by a cross--the tower of the Collegiate Church of Santa Deodata. She was a holy maiden of the Dark Ages, the city s patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle strangely in her story. So holy was she that all her life she lay upon her back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play, refusing to work. The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in various ways. He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating toys, he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head. When all proved vain he tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very eyes. But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady s room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan t." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C e il sole." "Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman. "Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don t care for the lot of you. I m English, and neither you ll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby." "La prego-piano-piano-c e un altra signorina che dorme--" "We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?" Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott. Philip s first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She uttered a shrill cry of joy. "You, Caroline, here of all people!" And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. Philip had an inspiration. "You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I ll pay my call on Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand." Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped into the street. "Tear each other s eyes out!" he cried, gesticulating at the facade of the hotel. "Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give it to her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go it!" Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy. He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do--Miss Abbott s presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed. And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott s presence spoilt the comedy: she would do nothing funny. During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out on the other side. "Where does Signor Carella live?" he asked the men at the Dogana. "I ll show you," said a little girl, springing out of the ground as Italian children will. "She will show you," said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. "Follow her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy guide. She is my daughter." cousin." sister." Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the peninsula. "Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?" he asked her. She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to the interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man of no great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the things he was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he would have it out with Gino. He followed the Dogana s relative softly, like a diplomatist. He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and
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Ages, the city s patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle strangely in her story. So holy was she that all her life she lay upon her back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play, refusing to work. The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in various ways. He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating toys, he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head. When all proved vain he tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very eyes. But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about till he came on the landlady s room and woke her, and sent her to them. Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!" "Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs. "To the Italian. Go." "Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!" (Don t be a goose. I m not going now. You re in the way, too.) "Vorrei due camere--" "Go. This instant. Now. I ll stand it no longer. Go!" "I m damned if I ll go. I want my tea." "Swear if you like!" she cried.<|quote|>"Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I m in earnest."</|quote|>"Harriet, don t act. Or act better." "We ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?" "Think of mother and don t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms." "I shan t." "Harriet, are you mad?" "If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian." "La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C e il sole." "Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman. "Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don t care for the lot of you. I m English, and neither you ll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby." "La prego-piano-piano-c e un altra signorina che dorme--" "We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?" Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott. Philip s first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She uttered a shrill cry of joy. "You, Caroline, here of all people!" And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. Philip had an inspiration. "You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I ll pay my call on Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand." Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped into the street. "Tear each other s eyes out!" he cried, gesticulating at the facade of the hotel. "Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give it to her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go it!" Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy. He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do--Miss Abbott s presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed.
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.
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No speaker
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I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of
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do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d
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think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of
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they had no such associations for her. "Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln s Inn Fields, isn t it? Look, there s a bird for you! Oh, you ve brought glasses, have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can you shoot? I shouldn t think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of owning a body. "Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gap of the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher s wire, set across a hole to trap a rabbit. "It s quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching him tugging at
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circling a few feet in front of them, disappearing and returning again and again. Mary had gone this walk many hundred times in the course of her life, generally alone, and at different stages the ghosts of past moods would flood her mind with a whole scene or train of thought merely at the sight of three trees from a particular angle, or at the sound of the pheasant clucking in the ditch. But to-night the circumstances were strong enough to oust all other scenes; and she looked at the field and the trees with an involuntary intensity as if they had no such associations for her. "Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln s Inn Fields, isn t it? Look, there s a bird for you! Oh, you ve brought glasses, have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can you shoot? I shouldn t think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of owning a body. "Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gap of the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher s wire, set across a hole to trap a rabbit. "It s quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching him tugging at the wire. "I wonder whether it was Alfred Duggins or Sid Rankin? How can one expect them not to, when they only make fifteen shillings a week? Fifteen shillings a week," she repeated, coming out on the other side of the hedge, and running her fingers through her hair to rid herself of a bramble which had attached itself to her. "I could live on fifteen shillings a week easily." "Could you?" said Ralph. "I don t believe you could," he added. "Oh yes. They have a cottage thrown in, and a garden where one can grow vegetables. It wouldn
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her presence. What could be the cause of her cheerfulness, he wondered, half ironically, and half enviously, as the pony-cart started briskly away, and the dusk swam between their eyes and the tall form of Edward, standing up to drive, with the reins in one hand and the whip in the other. People from the village, who had been to the market town, were climbing into their gigs, or setting off home down the road together in little parties. Many salutations were addressed to Mary, who shouted back, with the addition of the speaker s name. But soon she led the way over a stile, and along a path worn slightly darker than the dim green surrounding it. In front of them the sky now showed itself of a reddish-yellow, like a slice of some semilucent stone behind which a lamp burnt, while a fringe of black trees with distinct branches stood against the light, which was obscured in one direction by a hump of earth, in all other directions the land lying flat to the very verge of the sky. One of the swift and noiseless birds of the winter s night seemed to follow them across the field, circling a few feet in front of them, disappearing and returning again and again. Mary had gone this walk many hundred times in the course of her life, generally alone, and at different stages the ghosts of past moods would flood her mind with a whole scene or train of thought merely at the sight of three trees from a particular angle, or at the sound of the pheasant clucking in the ditch. But to-night the circumstances were strong enough to oust all other scenes; and she looked at the field and the trees with an involuntary intensity as if they had no such associations for her. "Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln s Inn Fields, isn t it? Look, there s a bird for you! Oh, you ve brought glasses, have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can you shoot? I shouldn t think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of owning a body. "Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gap of the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher s wire, set across a hole to trap a rabbit. "It s quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching him tugging at the wire. "I wonder whether it was Alfred Duggins or Sid Rankin? How can one expect them not to, when they only make fifteen shillings a week? Fifteen shillings a week," she repeated, coming out on the other side of the hedge, and running her fingers through her hair to rid herself of a bramble which had attached itself to her. "I could live on fifteen shillings a week easily." "Could you?" said Ralph. "I don t believe you could," he added. "Oh yes. They have a cottage thrown in, and a garden where one can grow vegetables. It wouldn t be half bad," said Mary, with a soberness which impressed Ralph very much. "But you d get tired of it," he urged. "I sometimes think it s the only thing one would never get tired of," she replied. The idea of a cottage where one grew one s own vegetables and lived on fifteen shillings a week, filled Ralph with an extraordinary sense of rest and satisfaction. "But wouldn t it be on the main road, or next door to a woman with six squalling children, who d always be hanging her washing out to dry across your garden?" "The cottage I m thinking of stands by itself in a little orchard." "And what about the Suffrage?" he asked, attempting sarcasm. "Oh, there are other things in the world besides the Suffrage," she replied, in an off-hand manner which was slightly mysterious. Ralph fell silent. It annoyed him that she should have plans of which he knew nothing; but he felt that he had no right to press her further. His mind settled upon the idea of life in a country cottage. Conceivably, for he could not examine into it now, here lay a tremendous possibility; a solution of
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s address. But when he looked out of the window, it was of her he thought; she, too, had seen these gray fields, and, perhaps, she was there where the trees ran up a slope, and one yellow light shone now, and then went out again, at the foot of the hill. The light shone in the windows of an old gray house, he thought. He lay back in his corner and forgot the commercial traveler altogether. The process of visualizing Katharine stopped short at the old gray manor-house; instinct warned him that if he went much further with this process reality would soon force itself in; he could not altogether neglect the figure of William Rodney. Since the day when he had heard from Katharine s lips of her engagement, he had refrained from investing his dream of her with the details of real life. But the light of the late afternoon glowed green behind the straight trees, and became a symbol of her. The light seemed to expand his heart. She brooded over the gray fields, and was with him now in the railway carriage, thoughtful, silent, and infinitely tender; but the vision pressed too close, and must be dismissed, for the train was slackening. Its abrupt jerks shook him wide awake, and he saw Mary Datchet, a sturdy russet figure, with a dash of scarlet about it, as the carriage slid down the platform. A tall youth who accompanied her shook him by the hand, took his bag, and led the way without uttering one articulate word. Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter s evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day. Such an edge was there in Mary s voice when she greeted him. About her seemed to hang the mist of the winter hedges, and the clear red of the bramble leaves. He felt himself at once stepping on to the firm ground of an entirely different world, but he did not allow himself to yield to the pleasure of it directly. They gave him his choice of driving with Edward or of walking home across the fields with Mary not a shorter way, they explained, but Mary thought it a nicer way. He decided to walk with her, being conscious, indeed, that he got comfort from her presence. What could be the cause of her cheerfulness, he wondered, half ironically, and half enviously, as the pony-cart started briskly away, and the dusk swam between their eyes and the tall form of Edward, standing up to drive, with the reins in one hand and the whip in the other. People from the village, who had been to the market town, were climbing into their gigs, or setting off home down the road together in little parties. Many salutations were addressed to Mary, who shouted back, with the addition of the speaker s name. But soon she led the way over a stile, and along a path worn slightly darker than the dim green surrounding it. In front of them the sky now showed itself of a reddish-yellow, like a slice of some semilucent stone behind which a lamp burnt, while a fringe of black trees with distinct branches stood against the light, which was obscured in one direction by a hump of earth, in all other directions the land lying flat to the very verge of the sky. One of the swift and noiseless birds of the winter s night seemed to follow them across the field, circling a few feet in front of them, disappearing and returning again and again. Mary had gone this walk many hundred times in the course of her life, generally alone, and at different stages the ghosts of past moods would flood her mind with a whole scene or train of thought merely at the sight of three trees from a particular angle, or at the sound of the pheasant clucking in the ditch. But to-night the circumstances were strong enough to oust all other scenes; and she looked at the field and the trees with an involuntary intensity as if they had no such associations for her. "Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln s Inn Fields, isn t it? Look, there s a bird for you! Oh, you ve brought glasses, have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can you shoot? I shouldn t think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of owning a body. "Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gap of the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher s wire, set across a hole to trap a rabbit. "It s quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching him tugging at the wire. "I wonder whether it was Alfred Duggins or Sid Rankin? How can one expect them not to, when they only make fifteen shillings a week? Fifteen shillings a week," she repeated, coming out on the other side of the hedge, and running her fingers through her hair to rid herself of a bramble which had attached itself to her. "I could live on fifteen shillings a week easily." "Could you?" said Ralph. "I don t believe you could," he added. "Oh yes. They have a cottage thrown in, and a garden where one can grow vegetables. It wouldn t be half bad," said Mary, with a soberness which impressed Ralph very much. "But you d get tired of it," he urged. "I sometimes think it s the only thing one would never get tired of," she replied. The idea of a cottage where one grew one s own vegetables and lived on fifteen shillings a week, filled Ralph with an extraordinary sense of rest and satisfaction. "But wouldn t it be on the main road, or next door to a woman with six squalling children, who d always be hanging her washing out to dry across your garden?" "The cottage I m thinking of stands by itself in a little orchard." "And what about the Suffrage?" he asked, attempting sarcasm. "Oh, there are other things in the world besides the Suffrage," she replied, in an off-hand manner which was slightly mysterious. Ralph fell silent. It annoyed him that she should have plans of which he knew nothing; but he felt that he had no right to press her further. His mind settled upon the idea of life in a country cottage. Conceivably, for he could not examine into it now, here lay a tremendous possibility; a solution of many problems. He struck his stick upon the earth, and stared through the dusk at the shape of the country. "D you know the points of the compass?" he asked. "Well, of course," said Mary. "What d you take me for? a Cockney like you?" She then told him exactly where the north lay, and where the south. "It s my native land, this," she said. "I could smell my way about it blindfold." As if to prove this boast, she walked a little quicker, so that Ralph found it difficult to keep pace with her. At the same time, he felt drawn to her as he had never been before; partly, no doubt, because she was more independent of him than in London, and seemed to be attached firmly to a world where he had no place at all. Now the dusk had fallen to such an extent that he had to follow her implicitly, and even lean his hand on her shoulder when they jumped a bank into a very narrow lane. And he felt curiously shy of her when she began to shout through her hands at a spot of light which swung upon the mist in a neighboring field. He shouted, too, and the light stood still. "That s Christopher, come in already, and gone to feed his chickens," she said. She introduced him to Ralph, who could see only a tall figure in gaiters, rising from a fluttering circle of soft feathery bodies, upon whom the light fell in wavering discs, calling out now a bright spot of yellow, now one of greenish-black and scarlet. Mary dipped her hand in the bucket he carried, and was at once the center of a circle also; and as she cast her grain she talked alternately to the birds and to her brother, in the same clucking, half-inarticulate voice, as it sounded to Ralph, standing on the outskirts of the fluttering feathers in his black overcoat. He had removed his overcoat by the time they sat round the dinner-table, but nevertheless he looked very strange among the others. A country life and breeding had preserved in them all a look which Mary hesitated to call either innocent or youthful, as she compared them, now sitting round in an oval, softly illuminated by candlelight; and yet it was something of the kind, yes, even in the case of the
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obscured in one direction by a hump of earth, in all other directions the land lying flat to the very verge of the sky. One of the swift and noiseless birds of the winter s night seemed to follow them across the field, circling a few feet in front of them, disappearing and returning again and again. Mary had gone this walk many hundred times in the course of her life, generally alone, and at different stages the ghosts of past moods would flood her mind with a whole scene or train of thought merely at the sight of three trees from a particular angle, or at the sound of the pheasant clucking in the ditch. But to-night the circumstances were strong enough to oust all other scenes; and she looked at the field and the trees with an involuntary intensity as if they had no such associations for her. "Well, Ralph," she said, "this is better than Lincoln s Inn Fields, isn t it? Look, there s a bird for you! Oh, you ve brought glasses, have you? Edward and Christopher mean to make you shoot. Can you shoot? I shouldn t think so" "Look here, you must explain," said Ralph. "Who are these young men? Where am I staying?" "You are staying with us, of course," she said boldly. "Of course, you re staying with us you don t mind coming, do you?" "If I had, I shouldn t have come,"<|quote|>he said sturdily. They walked on in silence; Mary took care not to break it for a time. She wished Ralph to feel, as she thought he would, all the fresh delights of the earth and air. She was right. In a moment he expressed his pleasure, much to her comfort.</|quote|>"This is the sort of country I thought you d live in, Mary," he said, pushing his hat back on his head, and looking about him. "Real country. No gentlemen s seats." He snuffed the air, and felt more keenly than he had done for many weeks the pleasure of owning a body. "Now we have to find our way through a hedge," said Mary. In the gap of the hedge Ralph tore up a poacher s wire, set across a hole to trap a rabbit. "It s quite right that they should poach," said Mary, watching him tugging at the wire. "I wonder whether it was Alfred Duggins or Sid Rankin? How can one expect them not to, when they only make fifteen shillings a week? Fifteen shillings a week," she repeated, coming out on the other side of the hedge, and running her fingers through her hair to rid herself of a bramble which had attached itself to her. "I could live on fifteen shillings a week easily." "Could you?" said Ralph. "I don t believe you could," he added. "Oh yes. They have a cottage thrown in, and a garden where one can grow vegetables. It wouldn t be half bad," said Mary, with a soberness which impressed Ralph very much. "But you d get tired of it," he urged. "I sometimes think it s the only thing one would never get tired of," she replied. The idea of a cottage where one grew one s own vegetables and lived on fifteen shillings a week, filled Ralph with an extraordinary sense of rest and satisfaction. "But wouldn t it be on the main road, or next door to a woman with six squalling children, who d always be hanging her washing out to dry across your garden?" "The cottage I m thinking of stands by itself in a little orchard." "And what about the Suffrage?" he asked, attempting sarcasm. "Oh, there are other things in the world besides the Suffrage," she replied, in an off-hand manner which was slightly mysterious. Ralph fell silent. It annoyed him that she should have plans of which he knew nothing; but he felt that he had no right to press her further. His mind settled upon the idea of life in a country cottage. Conceivably, for he could not examine into it now, here lay a tremendous possibility; a solution of many problems. He struck his stick upon the earth, and stared through the dusk at the shape of the country. "D you know the points of the compass?" he asked. "Well, of course," said Mary. "What d you take me for? a Cockney like you?" She then told him exactly where the north lay, and where the south. "It s my native land, this," she said. "I could smell my way about it blindfold." As if to prove this boast,
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Night And Day
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"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."
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Mrs. Sparsit
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"Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am,"
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come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked
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point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term
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off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term is preferred than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position." Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think." Then, resumed his discourse. "You can
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that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, I don't care what it is." Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate and which some people really believed. "But I am acquainted with these chaps," said Bounderby. "I can read 'em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term is preferred than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position." Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think." Then, resumed his discourse. "You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn't mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with 'em. I KNOW 'em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;" Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it
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these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at his time of life. They would have been out of pocket if they had invested eighteenpence in the job; I can tell 'em that." "Is anybody suspected?" "Suspected? I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!" said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his heated head. "Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank you!" Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected? "Well," said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all, "I'll tell you. It's not to be mentioned everywhere; it's not to be mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there's a gang of 'em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit." Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. "What should you say to;" here he violently exploded: "to a Hand being in it?" "I hope," said Harthouse, lazily, "not our friend Blackpot?" "Say Pool instead of Pot, sir," returned Bounderby, "and that's the man." Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise. "O yes! I know!" said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. "I know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, I don't care what it is." Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate and which some people really believed. "But I am acquainted with these chaps," said Bounderby. "I can read 'em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term is preferred than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position." Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think." Then, resumed his discourse. "You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn't mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with 'em. I KNOW 'em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;" Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; "to his being seen night after night watching the Bank? to his lurking about there after dark? To its striking Mrs. Sparsit that he could be lurking for no good To her calling Bitzer's attention to him, and their both taking notice of him And to its appearing on inquiry to-day that he was also noticed by the neighbours?" Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head. "Suspicious," said James Harthouse, "certainly." "I think so, sir," said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. "I think so. But there are more of 'em in it. There's an old woman. One never hears of these things till the mischief's done; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door after the horse is stolen; there's an old woman turns up now. An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a broomstick, every now and then. _She_ watches the place a whole day before this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him, she steals away with him and holds a council with him I suppose, to make her report on going off duty,
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robbed while you're snoring because you're too comfortable, without being put right with _your_ four seven ones. I didn't snore, myself, when I was your age, let me tell you. I hadn't victuals enough to snore. And I didn't four seven one. Not if I knew it." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, and seemed at once particularly impressed and depressed by the instance last given of Mr. Bounderby's moral abstinence. "A hundred and fifty odd pound," resumed Mr. Bounderby. "That sum of money, young Tom locked in his safe, not a very strong safe, but that's no matter now. Everything was left, all right. Some time in the night, while this young fellow snored Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, you say you have heard him snore?" "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I cannot say that I have heard him precisely snore, and therefore must not make that statement. But on winter evenings, when he has fallen asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have heard him on such occasions produce sounds of a nature similar to what may be sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Not," said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving strict evidence, "that I would convey any imputation on his moral character. Far from it. I have always considered Bitzer a young man of the most upright principle; and to that I beg to bear my testimony." "Well!" said the exasperated Bounderby, "while he was snoring, _or_ choking, _or_ Dutch-clocking, _or_ something _or_ other being asleep some fellows, somehow, whether previously concealed in the house or not remains to be seen, got to young Tom's safe, forced it, and abstracted the contents. Being then disturbed, they made off; letting themselves out at the main door, and double-locking it again (it was double-locked, and the key under Mrs. Sparsit's pillow) with a false key, which was picked up in the street near the Bank, about twelve o'clock to-day. No alarm takes place, till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning, and begins to open and prepare the offices for business. Then, looking at Tom's safe, he sees the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and the money gone." "Where is Tom, by the by?" asked Harthouse, glancing round. "He has been helping the police," said Bounderby, "and stays behind at the Bank. I wish these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at his time of life. They would have been out of pocket if they had invested eighteenpence in the job; I can tell 'em that." "Is anybody suspected?" "Suspected? I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!" said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his heated head. "Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank you!" Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected? "Well," said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all, "I'll tell you. It's not to be mentioned everywhere; it's not to be mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there's a gang of 'em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit." Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. "What should you say to;" here he violently exploded: "to a Hand being in it?" "I hope," said Harthouse, lazily, "not our friend Blackpot?" "Say Pool instead of Pot, sir," returned Bounderby, "and that's the man." Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise. "O yes! I know!" said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. "I know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, I don't care what it is." Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate and which some people really believed. "But I am acquainted with these chaps," said Bounderby. "I can read 'em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term is preferred than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position." Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think." Then, resumed his discourse. "You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn't mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with 'em. I KNOW 'em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;" Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; "to his being seen night after night watching the Bank? to his lurking about there after dark? To its striking Mrs. Sparsit that he could be lurking for no good To her calling Bitzer's attention to him, and their both taking notice of him And to its appearing on inquiry to-day that he was also noticed by the neighbours?" Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head. "Suspicious," said James Harthouse, "certainly." "I think so, sir," said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. "I think so. But there are more of 'em in it. There's an old woman. One never hears of these things till the mischief's done; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door after the horse is stolen; there's an old woman turns up now. An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a broomstick, every now and then. _She_ watches the place a whole day before this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him, she steals away with him and holds a council with him I suppose, to make her report on going off duty, and be damned to her." There was such a person in the room that night, and she shrunk from observation, thought Louisa. "This is not all of 'em, even as we already know 'em," said Bounderby, with many nods of hidden meaning. "But I have said enough for the present. You'll have the goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no one. It may take time, but we shall have 'em. It's policy to give 'em line enough, and there's no objection to that." "Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as notice-boards observe," replied James Harthouse, "and serve them right. Fellows who go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there were no consequences, we should all go in for Banks." He had gently taken Louisa's parasol from her hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked under its shade, though the sun did not shine there. "For the present, Loo Bounderby," said her husband, "here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Sparsit's nerves have been acted upon by this business, and she'll stay here a day or two. So make her comfortable." "Thank you very much, sir," that discreet lady observed, "but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me." It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses were accustomed to splendour, "but it is my duty to remember," Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of the domestics were present, "that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed," said she, "if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so." The same Hermitical state of mind led
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I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!" said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his heated head. "Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank you!" Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected? "Well," said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all, "I'll tell you. It's not to be mentioned everywhere; it's not to be mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there's a gang of 'em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit." Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. "What should you say to;" here he violently exploded: "to a Hand being in it?" "I hope," said Harthouse, lazily, "not our friend Blackpot?" "Say Pool instead of Pot, sir," returned Bounderby, "and that's the man." Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise. "O yes! I know!" said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. "I know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, I don't care what it is." Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate and which some people really believed. "But I am acquainted with these chaps," said Bounderby. "I can read 'em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy, did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow," "you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good" "?" "Assuredly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,<|quote|>"you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition."</|quote|>"When he shocked you, ma'am," said Bounderby; "when he shocked your feelings?" "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, "he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points more foolish if the term is preferred than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position." Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, "I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think." Then, resumed his discourse. "You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn't mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with 'em. I KNOW 'em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;" Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; "to his being seen night after night watching the Bank? to his lurking about there after dark? To its striking Mrs. Sparsit that he could be lurking for no good To her calling Bitzer's attention to him, and their both taking notice of him And to its appearing on inquiry to-day that he was also noticed by the neighbours?" Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head. "Suspicious," said James Harthouse, "certainly." "I think so, sir," said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. "I think so. But there are more of 'em in it. There's an old woman. One never hears of these things till the mischief's done; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door after the horse is stolen; there's an old woman turns up now.
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Hard Times
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"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"
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Mrs. Honeychurch
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toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality,
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shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth
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has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always
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me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my
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only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in
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love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval." "Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom
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garden?" "I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs." "The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small." They both laughed, and things began to go better. "The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued. "Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable." "She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity. "I quite agree. At present she has none." "At present?" "I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." Cecil found his companion interesting. "And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?" "Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be." "In what way?" Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace. "I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks." The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself. "But the string never broke?" "No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall." "It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones. Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him? "Broken? What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval." "Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and
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What do you mean?" "I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me." The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice. "I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered. Occasionally he could be quite crude. "I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval." "Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you." "You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession. "No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her." "Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons. "Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden.<|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"</|quote|>Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact. "Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea." "You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?" He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present,
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A Room With A View
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"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"
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Mrs. Sparsit
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have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent
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he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the
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day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr.
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now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" "Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two
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and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" "Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him
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circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" "Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when
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Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been by the mother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called "a Powler." Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and the dense black eyebrows which had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bounderby's tea as he took his breakfast. If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his state-processions, he could not have made a greater flourish with her than he habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit's. In the measure that he would not allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favourable circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" "Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to light you." "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age." "Egad, ma'am, so was I," said Bounderby, "with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement of its Arcade used to make, I assure you. People like you, ma'am, accustomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have no idea _how_ hard a paving-stone is, without trying it. No, no, it's of no use my talking to _you_ about tumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers, and the West End of London, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and honourables." "I trust, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resignation, "it is not necessary that you should do anything of that kind. I hope I have learnt how to accommodate myself to the changes of life. If I have acquired an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment." "Well, ma'am," said her patron, "perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess that you were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma'am, you know you were born in the lap of luxury." "I do not, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, "deny it." Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position. "And you were in crack society. Devilish high society," he said, warming his legs. "It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it. "You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. "It is unquestionably true." Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss. "Can Jupe be
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tea as he took his breakfast. If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his state-processions, he could not have made a greater flourish with her than he habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit's. In the measure that he would not allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favourable circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa."<|quote|>"Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!"</|quote|>Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship." "Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" "Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to light you." "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age." "Egad, ma'am, so was I," said Bounderby, "with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement of its Arcade used to make, I assure
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Hard Times
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said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.
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No speaker
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much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking
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yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself;
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dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap
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won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the
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the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the
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a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and
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mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There's two o' them birds coming to see what's the matter." "I can't leave you, Jem. You're of more consequence to me than all the New Zealanders in the place." "Am I, Mas' Don? Come, that's kindly spoke of you. But bother that tree! Might ha' behaved as well to me as t'other did to you." "Where do you feel in pain, Jem?" "Where? It's one big solid slapping pain all over me, but it's worst where there's a big thorn stuck in my arm." "Let me see." "No; wait a bit. I don't mean to be left alone out here if I can help it. Now, Mas' Don, you lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you
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to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances. "Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief.</|quote|>"I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am,
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Don Lavington
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"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"
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Margaret
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since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they
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looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning
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I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever,
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unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued
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a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I m not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?"
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a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don t; it wouldn t do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying don t ! It s ignorant. It s as if your head wasn t out of the slime. Don t is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ll have got my head out of the slime." "That s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I ll go back before that, because I m anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I m not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn t," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn t, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes
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down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery," said Tibby. "We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it s stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don t know what s happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don t; it wouldn t do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying don t ! It s ignorant. It s as if your head wasn t out of the slime. Don t is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ll have got my head out of the slime." "That s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I ll go back before that, because I m anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I m not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn t," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn t, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--" She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. "If Wilcoxes hadn t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--" "And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul." "That s brutal," said Margaret. "Mine is an absolutely different case. I ve thought things out." "It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same." "Rubbish!" There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. "One would lose something," murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world s fleet accompanying her towards eternity? CHAPTER XX Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another s infinity; he is conscious
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either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don t; it wouldn t do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying don t ! It s ignorant. It s as if your head wasn t out of the slime. Don t is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ll have got my head out of the slime." "That s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I ll go back before that, because I m anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally.<|quote|>"But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?"</|quote|>"But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the man who loved me frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger." She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. "That s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be prose. I m not running it down--a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox s faults. He s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn t sympathy really. I d even say" "--she looked at the shining lagoons--" "that, spiritually, he s not as honest as I am. Doesn t that satisfy you?" "No, it doesn t," said Helen. "It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad." Margaret made a movement of irritation. "I don t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life--good heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn t, and shall never, understand." Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. "So with him," she continued. "There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which
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Howards End
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“My dear child, for what do you take me?”
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Theign
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contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started,
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hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately
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stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang
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in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some
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visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful
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please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a
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gone, revolved--it might have been nervously--about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.” “Yes, we talked--a while since,” the girl said. “At least _he_ did.” “Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.” “Oh, he speaks very well--and I’ve never disliked him.” It pulled her father up. “Is that _all_--when I think so much of him?” She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, _very_ much?” “Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!” Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him--and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.” “He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.” It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and--well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.” “Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.” For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out. “I should like it exceedingly--if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced--of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.” “Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.” But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please _me!_ Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself” --he slightly took himself up-- “in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything--of your best!--ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there _is_ such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.” “Well, it _was_, to me, half an hour ago,” she said as she came nearer. “But if it has since come up?” “‘If’ it has! But _has_ it? In the form of that monster? What Mr. Bender wants is the great Duchess,” he recalled. “And my father won’t sell _her_? No, he won’t sell the great Duchess--there I feel safe. But he greatly needs a certain sum of money--or he thinks he does--and I’ve just had a talk with him.” “In which he has told you that?” “He has told me
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what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose.<|quote|>“My dear child, for what do you take me?”</|quote|>With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.” “Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some
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The Outcry
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"Some one knocked him down?"
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A sailor
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he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men.
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the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I
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with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning
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"Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't
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boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out
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and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him
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kill a thing like that. Here, let's roll up one of these here blanket things and make him a pillow, and cover him up with the other, poor fellow, so as he may get better and go and tell 'em we're here." "Don't talk like that, Jem!" cried Don. "Why not? Soon as he gets better he'll try and do us all the harm he can." "Poor fellow! I'm afraid he's dead," whispered Don. "Then he won't want no more cutlashes and pistols," said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; "these here will be useful to us." "But they are the king's property, Jem." "Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted 'em, he'd lend 'em to us. He shall have 'em again when we've done with them." As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden's head round, so that the wind blew in his face. "How I should like to jump on him!" growled Jem. "I hate him like poison, and I would if I'd got on a pair o' boots. Shouldn't hurt him a bit like this." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let's hail; he can't be very far off." "I say, Mas' Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?" "Mad? No!" "Then, p'r'aps it's because you had no sleep. Here's a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he's floored and we're all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it's my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you'd want to take out his tusk." "Very likely, Jem," said Don, laughing. "Ah, and as soon as you'd done it, `thankye, my lad,' says the tiger, `that tooth's been so bad that I haven't made a comf'table meal for days, so here goes.'" "And then he'd eat me, Jem." "That's so, my lad." "Ah, well, this isn't a tiger, Jem." "Why, he's wuss than a tiger, Mas' Don; because he do know better, and tigers don't." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came from below them in the ravine. "Oh, crumpets!" exclaimed Jem. "Now we're done for. All that long swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here, let's get him down." "Ay, ay, sir. But I say, mate, where's your fighting tools? What yer done with them?" Don made an angry gesticulation, and turned to Jem, who had the pistols and cutlass in his hand and waistbelt, and felt as if he should like to hurl them away. "He must have dropped them inside. Here, one of you come with me and get them." Don shrank back into the stony passage as a man volunteered, but the boatswain hesitated. "No," he said, to Don's great relief; "I can't afford to run risks for the sake of a pair of pistols." "Let me go in," said the man. "I'm not going to send men where I'm afraid to go myself," said the boatswain bluntly. "Come on down." The boatswain led the way, and Ramsden was helped down, the man who had volunteered to go in the cavern to fetch the pistols manoeuvring so as to be last, and as soon as the party had disappeared over the shelf he gave a glance after them, and turned sharply. "Foul air won't hurt me," he said; and he dived right in rapidly to regain the pistols and cutlass, so as to have the laugh of his messmates when they returned on board. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. ANOTHER ALARM. "It's all over," thought Don, as the man came on, with discovery inevitable if he continued at his present rate. They were about fifty feet from the entrance, and they felt that if they moved they would be heard; and, as if urged by the same impulse, they stood fast, save that Jem doubled his fist and drew back his arm ready to strike. All at once the man stopped short. "He sees us," said Don, mentally. But he was wrong, for the sailor thrust his fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, which ran echoing through the place in a curiously hollow way. "That's a rum un," he said, with a laugh. "Blow some o' the foul air out. Wonder how far he went in?" He walked on slowly, and then stopped short as if he saw the hiding pair; but there was no gesture made, and of course his face was invisible to the fugitives, to whom he seemed to be nothing but a black figure. "Plaguey dark!" ejaculated the man aloud. _Hiss-s-s-s_! A tremendously loud sibillation came out of the darkness--such
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swim for nothing." "Back into the cave," whispered Don. "Perhaps they have not seen us." He gave Jem a thrust, they backed in a few yards, and then stood watching and listening. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I arn't," muttered Jem. "You might cut him up like a heel; legs and arms and body, and every bit of him would try and do you a mischief." "I'm afraid, though, that he knew we were in here, and that as soon as he comes to, he'll tell the others." "Not he. It was only his gammon to frighten us into speaking if we were there." "Ramsden, ahoy!" came again from below; and then from a distance came another hail, which the same voice answered--evidently from some distance below the mouth of the cave. "Ramsden! Here, my man; come along, they're not in there." "Hear that, Jem? Mr Jones." "Oh yes, I hear," growled Jem. "He don't know yet; but wait a bit till old Ram tells him." "We couldn't slip out yet, Jem?" "No; o' course not. They'd see us now. Look!" Jem was about to draw back, but feeling that a movement might betray them, Don held him fast, and they stood there in the shadow of the cave, looking on, for the boatswain's head appeared as he drew himself up the precipitous place, and then stepped on the shelf. "Here, come out, sir! Are you asleep? Hah!" He caught sight of the prostrate sailor, and bent down over him. "Why, Ramsden, man!" he cried, as he tore open his sailor's shirt and placed his hand upon his throat. Then, starting up, he sent forth a tremendous hail. "Ahoy!" "Ahoy!" came back from several places, like the echoes of his call. "Come on here! Quick!" he shouted, with his hands to his mouth. "Ahoy!" came from a distance; and from nearer at hand, "Ay, ay, sir; ay, ay!" From where Don and Jem stood they could see the boatswain's every movement, as, after once more feeling the sailor's throat and wrist, he bent over him and poured water from his bottle between his lips, bathed his forehead and eyes, and then fanned him with his hat, but without effect. Then he looked out anxiously and hailed again, the replies coming from close by; and soon after first one and then another sailor, whose faces were quite familiar, climbed up to the shelf, when the boatswain explained hastily how he had left his companion.<|quote|>"Some one knocked him down?"</|quote|>said one of his men. "No; he's not hurt. I should say it's a fit. More water. Don't be afraid!" Each of the men who had climbed up carried a supply, and a quantity was dashed over Ramsden's face with the effect that he began to display signs of returning consciousness, and at last sat up and stared. "What's matter, mate?" said one of the men, as Don prepared to hurry back into the darkness, but longed to hear what Ramsden would say. It was a painful moment, for upon his words seemed to depend their safety. "Matter? I don't know--I--" He put his hand to his head. "Here, take a drink o' this, mate," said one of the men, and Ramsden swallowed some water with avidity. "Arn't seen a ghost, have you?" "I recollect now, Mr Jones. You left me in that hole." "And called to you to come out." "Yes, but--" Don's heart beat furiously. They were discovered, and now the betrayal was to come. "Well, what happened?" said the boatswain. "I felt sure that those two were in this place, and I went on farther into the darkness till I kicked against something and fell down." "Out here and stunned yourself." "No, no; in there! I'd got up and picked up my cutlash, and then something seemed to choke me, and I went down again." Jem squeezed Don's arm, for they both felt more hopeful. "And then one of they chaps came and give you a crack on the head?" said a sailor. Don's heart sank again. "Nonsense!" said his old friend, the boatswain. "Foul air. He must have staggered out and fallen down insensible." Jem gripped Don's arm with painful force here. "How do you feel? Can you walk?" Ramsden rose slowly, and staggered, but one of the men caught his arm. "I--I think I can." "Well, we must get you down to the boat as soon as we can walk, if you are able. If you can't, we must carry you." "But them chaps," said one of the party, just as Don and Jem were beginning to breathe freely. "Think they're in yonder, mate?" "I--I think so," said Ramsden faintly. "You had better search." "What! A place full of foul air?" said the boatswain, greatly to Don's relief. "Absurd! If Ramsden could not live in there, how could the escaped men? Here,
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Don Lavington
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“As if it mattered to you,”
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Daisy
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She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it
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course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take
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words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to
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love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!”
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waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for
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more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled
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as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade. It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the
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loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband.<|quote|>“As if it mattered to you,”</|quote|>she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me
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The Great Gatsby
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she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.
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No speaker
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race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three
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been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if
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aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep
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and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the
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the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud,
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people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay
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peoples there," she said. Then she raised the other arm and waved it downstream towards the hidden country. "Pie-wie peoples there," she said. "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples." "Now listen, Rosa. You are sensible, civilized woman. You lived two years with black gentleman, Mr Forbes. You like cigarettes--" "Yes, give me cigarettes." "You come with men in boats, I give you plenty, plenty cigarettes." Rosa looked stolidly ahead of her and said nothing. "Listen. You will have your man and seven others to protect you. How can we talk with men without you?" "Men no go," said Rosa. "Of course the men will go. The only question is, will you come too?" "Macushi peoples no go with Pie-wie peoples," said Rosa. "Oh God," said Dr Messinger wearily. "All right, we'll talk about it in the morning." "You give me cigarette...." "It's going to be awkward if that woman doesn't come." "It's going to be much more awkward if none of them come," said Tony. * * * * * Next day the boats were ready. By noon they were launched and tied in to the bank. The Indians went silently about the business of preparing their dinner. Tony and Dr Messinger ate tongue, boiled rice and some tinned peaches. "We're all right for stores," said Dr Messinger. "There's enough for three weeks at the shortest and we are bound to come across the Pie-wies in a day or two. We will start to-morrow." The Indians' wages, in rifles, fish hooks and rolls of cotton, had been left behind for them at their village. There were still half a dozen boxes of "trade" for use during the later stages of the journey. A leg of bush-pig was worth a handful of shot or twenty gun caps in that currency; a fat game-bird cost a necklace. When dinner was over, at about one o'clock, Dr Messinger called Rosa over to them. "We start to-morrow," he said. "Yes, just now." "Tell the men what I told you last night. Eight men to come in boats, others wait here. You come in boats. All these stores stay here. All these stores go in boats. You tell men that." Rosa said nothing. "Understand?" "No peoples go in boats," she said. "All peoples go this way," and she extended her arm towards the trail that they had lately followed. "To-morrow or next day all people go back to village." There was a long pause; at last Dr Messinger said, "You tell the men to come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get some supper," said Tony. They boiled water and made some cocoa, opened a tin of salmon and finished the peaches that were left over from mid-day. They lit their pipes and drew the sheaths of mosquito netting across their hammocks. Most of this time they were silent. Presently they decided to go to sleep. "We shall find them all here in the morning," said Dr Messinger. "They're an odd bunch." All round them the voices of the bush whistled and croaked, changing with the hours as the night wore on to morning. * * * * * Dawn broke in London, clear and sweet, dove grey and honey, with promise of good weather; the lamps in the streets paled and disappeared; the empty streets ran with water, and the rising sun caught it as it bubbled round the hydrants; the men in overalls swung the nozzles of their hoses from side to side and the water jetted and cascaded in a sparkle of light. "Let's have the window open," said Brenda. "It's stuffy in here." The waiter drew back the curtains, opened the windows. "It's quite light," she added. "After five. Oughtn't we to go to bed?" "Yes." "Only another week and then all the parties will be over," said Beaver. "Yes." "Well, let's go." "All right. Can you pay? I just haven't any money." They had come on after the party, for breakfast at a club Daisy had opened. Beaver paid for the kippers and tea. "Eight shillings," he said. "How does Daisy expect to make a success of the place when she charges prices like that?" "It does seem a lot.... So you really _are_ going to America?" "I must. Mother has taken the tickets." "Nothing I've said to-night makes any difference?" "Darling, don't go on. We've been through all that. You know it's the only thing that _can_ happen. Why spoil the last week?" "You _have_ enjoyed the summer, haven't you?" "Of course... well, shall we go?" "Yes. You needn't bother to see me home." "Sure you don't mind? It _is_ miles out of the way
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come here" .... "It's no use threatening them," he remarked to Tony when Rosa had waddled back to the fireside. "They are a queer, timid lot. If you threaten them they take fright and disappear, leaving you stranded. Don't worry, I shall be able to persuade them." They could see Rosa talking at the fireside but none of the group moved. Presently, having delivered her message, she was silent and squatted down among them with the head of one of the women between her knees. She had been searching it for lice when Dr Messinger's summons had interrupted her. "We'd better go across and talk to them." Some of the Indians were in hammocks. The others were squatting on their heels; they had scraped earth over the fire and extinguished it. They gazed at Tony and Dr Messinger with slit, pig eyes. Only Rosa seemed incurious; her head was averted; all her attention went to her busy fingers as she picked and crunched the lice from her friend's hair. "What's the matter?" asked Dr Messinger. "I told you to bring the men here." Rosa said nothing. "So Macushi people are cowards. They are afraid of Pie-wie people." "It is the cassava field," said Rosa. "We must go back to dig the cassava. Otherwise it will be bad." "Listen. I want the men for one, two weeks. No more. After that, all finish. They can go home." "It is the time to dig the cassava. Macushi people dig cassava before the big rains. All people go home just now." "It's pure blackmail," said Dr Messinger. "Let's get out some trade goods." He and Tony together prised open one of the cases and began to spread out the contents on a blanket. They had chosen these things together at a cheap store in Oxford Street. The Indians watched the display in unbroken silence. There were bottles of scent and pills, bright celluloid combs set with glass jewels, mirrors, pocket knives with embossed aluminium handles, ribbons and necklaces and barter of more solid worth in the form of axe heads, brass cartridge cases and flat, red flasks of gunpowder. "You give me this," said Rosa picking out a pale blue rosette, that had been made as a boat race favour. "Give me this,"<|quote|>she repeated, rubbing some drops of scent into the palm of her hands and inhaling deeply.</|quote|>"Each man can choose three things from this box if he comes in the boats." But Rosa replied monotonously, "Macushi peoples dig cassava field just now." "It's no good," said Dr Messinger after half an hour's fruitless negotiation. "We shall have to try with the mice. I wanted to keep them till we reached the Pie-wies. It's a pity. But they'll fall for the mice, you see. I _know_ the Indian mind." These mice were comparatively expensive articles; they had cost three and sixpence each, and Tony remembered vividly the embarrassment with which he had witnessed their demonstration on the floor of the toy department. They were of German manufacture; the size of large rats, but conspicuously painted in spots of green and white; they had large glass eyes, stiff whiskers and green-and-white-ringed tails; they ran on hidden wheels, and inside them were little bells that jingled as they moved. Dr Messinger took one out of their box, unwrapped the tissue-paper and held it up to general scrutiny. There was no doubt that he had captured his audience's interest. Then he wound it up. The Indians stirred apprehensively at the sound. The ground where they were camping was hard mud, inundated at flood time. Dr Messinger put the toy down at his feet and set it going; tinkling merrily it ran towards the group of Indians. For a moment, Tony was afraid that it would turn over or become stuck against a root, but the mechanism was unimpaired and by good chance there was a clear course. The effect exceeded anything that he had expected. There was a loud intake of breath, a series of horrified, small grunts, a high wail of terror from the women, and a sudden stampede; a faint patter of bare brown feet among the fallen leaves, bare limbs, quiet as bats, pushed through the undergrowth, ragged cotton gowns caught and tore in the thorn bushes. Before the toy had run down, before it had jingled its way to the place where the nearest Indian had been squatting, the camp was empty. "Well, I'm damned," said Dr Messinger, "that's better than I expected." "More than you expected, anyway." "Oh, it's all right. They'll come back. I know them." But by sundown there was still no sign. Throughout the hot afternoon Tony and Dr Messinger, shrouded from cabouri fly, sprawled in their hammocks. The empty canoes lay in the river; the mechanical mouse had been put away. At sundown Dr Messinger said, "We'd better make a fire. They'll come back when it is dark." They brushed the earth away from the old embers, brought new wood and made a fire; they lit the storm lantern. "We'd better get some
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A Handful Of Dust
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So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.
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No speaker
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let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be
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"Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was
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"All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she
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I have to work. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside." "No," said Tony. "I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her." "All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas fire in her dressing-gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. "Sorry if I'm late," she said. "Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't mind really. She travels on a half ticket." Winnie
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"I suppose you wouldn't care to come away for the week-end?" he asked. "Shouldn't mind," said Milly. "Where?" "I thought of Brighton." "Oh... Is it for a divorce?" "Yes." "You wouldn't mind if I brought my little girl with us? She wouldn't be any trouble." "Yes." "You mean you wouldn't mind?" "I mean I should mind." "Oh... You wouldn't think I had a little girl of eight, would you?" "No." "She's called Winnie. I was only sixteen when I had her. I was the youngest of the family and our stepfather wouldn't leave any of us girls alone. That's why I have to work. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside." "No," said Tony. "I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her." "All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas fire in her dressing-gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. "Sorry if I'm late," she said. "Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't mind really. She travels on a half ticket." Winnie was a plain child with large gold-rimmed spectacles. When she spoke she revealed that two of her front teeth were missing. "I hope you don't imagine she's coming with us." "Yes, that the idea," said Milly. "She won't be any trouble--she's got her puzzle." Tony bent down to speak to the little girl. "Listen," he said. "You don't want to come to a nasty big hotel. You go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your
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was very seldom that Milly and Babs met anyone who was quite sober during their business hours. "Well, come and sit down. How are you both?" "I think I'm starting a cold," said Babs. "I feel awful. Why can't they heat this hole, the mean hounds?" Milly was more cheerful and swayed in her chair to the music. "Care to dance?" she said, and she and Tony began to shuffle across the empty floor. "My friend is looking for a lady to take to the seaside," said Jock. "What, this weather? That'll be a nice treat for a lonely girl." Babs sniffed into a little ball of a handkerchief. "It's for a divorce." "Oh, I see. Well, why doesn't he take Milly? She doesn't catch cold easy. Besides, she knows how to behave at an hotel. Lots of the girls here are all right to have a lark with in town, but you have to have a _lady_ for a divorce." "D'you often get asked to do that?" "Now and then. It's a nice rest--but it means so much _talking_ and the gentlemen will always go on so about their wives." While they were dancing Tony came straight to business. "I suppose you wouldn't care to come away for the week-end?" he asked. "Shouldn't mind," said Milly. "Where?" "I thought of Brighton." "Oh... Is it for a divorce?" "Yes." "You wouldn't mind if I brought my little girl with us? She wouldn't be any trouble." "Yes." "You mean you wouldn't mind?" "I mean I should mind." "Oh... You wouldn't think I had a little girl of eight, would you?" "No." "She's called Winnie. I was only sixteen when I had her. I was the youngest of the family and our stepfather wouldn't leave any of us girls alone. That's why I have to work. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside." "No," said Tony. "I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her." "All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas fire in her dressing-gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. "Sorry if I'm late," she said. "Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't mind really. She travels on a half ticket." Winnie was a plain child with large gold-rimmed spectacles. When she spoke she revealed that two of her front teeth were missing. "I hope you don't imagine she's coming with us." "Yes, that the idea," said Milly. "She won't be any trouble--she's got her puzzle." Tony bent down to speak to the little girl. "Listen," he said. "You don't want to come to a nasty big hotel. You go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your home. You'll like that, won't you?" "No," said Winnie. "I want to go to the seaside. I won't go with that man. I don't want a doll. I want to go to the seaside with my mummy." Several people besides the detectives were beginning to take notice of the oddly assorted group. "Oh God!" said Tony. "I suppose she's got to come." The detectives followed at a distance down the platform. Tony settled his companions in a Pullman car. "Look," said Milly, "we're travelling first-class. Isn't that fun? We can have tea." "Can I have an ice?" "I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea." "But I want an ice." "You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again." "The Awful Child of popular fiction," said Jock as he left Tony. Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea. * * * * * Rooms at the
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as a matter of interest." "I expect I shall be able to find someone," said Tony. "I have no doubt of it," said the solicitor, bowing politely. But when he came to discuss the question later with Jock, it did not seem so easy. "It's not a thing one can ask every girl to do," he said, "whichever way you put it. If you say it is merely a legal form it is rather insulting, and if you suggest going the whole hog it's rather fresh--suddenly, I mean, if you've never paid any particular attention to her before and don't propose to carry on with it afterwards... Of course there's always old Sybil." But even Sybil refused. "I'd do it like a shot any other time," she said, "but just at the moment it wouldn't suit my book. There's a certain person who might hear about it and take it wrong... There's an awfully pretty girl called Jenny Abdul Akbar. I wonder if you've met her." "Yes, I've met her." "Well, won't she do?" "No." "Oh dear, I don't know who to suggest." "We'd better go and study the market at the Old Hundredth," said Jock. They dined at Jock's house. Lately they had found it a little gloomy at Brown's, for people tended to avoid anyone they knew to be unhappy. Though they drank a magnum of champagne they could not recapture the light-hearted mood in which they had last visited Sink Street. And then Tony said, "Is it any good going there yet?" "We may as well try. After all, we aren't going there for enjoyment." "No, indeed." The doors were open at a Hundred Sink Street and the band was playing to an empty ballroom. The waiters were eating at a little table in the corner. Two or three girls were clustered round the Jack-Pot machine, losing shillings hard and complaining about the cold. They ordered a bottle of the Montmorency Wine Company's brand and sat down to wait. "Any of those do?" asked Jock. "I don't much care." "Better get someone you like. You've got to put in a lot of time with her." Presently Milly and Babs came downstairs. "How are the postmen's hats?" said Milly. They could not recognize the allusion. "You are the two boys who were here last month, aren't you?" "Yes. I'm afraid we were rather tight." "You don't say?" It was very seldom that Milly and Babs met anyone who was quite sober during their business hours. "Well, come and sit down. How are you both?" "I think I'm starting a cold," said Babs. "I feel awful. Why can't they heat this hole, the mean hounds?" Milly was more cheerful and swayed in her chair to the music. "Care to dance?" she said, and she and Tony began to shuffle across the empty floor. "My friend is looking for a lady to take to the seaside," said Jock. "What, this weather? That'll be a nice treat for a lonely girl." Babs sniffed into a little ball of a handkerchief. "It's for a divorce." "Oh, I see. Well, why doesn't he take Milly? She doesn't catch cold easy. Besides, she knows how to behave at an hotel. Lots of the girls here are all right to have a lark with in town, but you have to have a _lady_ for a divorce." "D'you often get asked to do that?" "Now and then. It's a nice rest--but it means so much _talking_ and the gentlemen will always go on so about their wives." While they were dancing Tony came straight to business. "I suppose you wouldn't care to come away for the week-end?" he asked. "Shouldn't mind," said Milly. "Where?" "I thought of Brighton." "Oh... Is it for a divorce?" "Yes." "You wouldn't mind if I brought my little girl with us? She wouldn't be any trouble." "Yes." "You mean you wouldn't mind?" "I mean I should mind." "Oh... You wouldn't think I had a little girl of eight, would you?" "No." "She's called Winnie. I was only sixteen when I had her. I was the youngest of the family and our stepfather wouldn't leave any of us girls alone. That's why I have to work. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside." "No," said Tony. "I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her." "All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas fire in her dressing-gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. "Sorry if I'm late," she said. "Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't mind really. She travels on a half ticket." Winnie was a plain child with large gold-rimmed spectacles. When she spoke she revealed that two of her front teeth were missing. "I hope you don't imagine she's coming with us." "Yes, that the idea," said Milly. "She won't be any trouble--she's got her puzzle." Tony bent down to speak to the little girl. "Listen," he said. "You don't want to come to a nasty big hotel. You go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your home. You'll like that, won't you?" "No," said Winnie. "I want to go to the seaside. I won't go with that man. I don't want a doll. I want to go to the seaside with my mummy." Several people besides the detectives were beginning to take notice of the oddly assorted group. "Oh God!" said Tony. "I suppose she's got to come." The detectives followed at a distance down the platform. Tony settled his companions in a Pullman car. "Look," said Milly, "we're travelling first-class. Isn't that fun? We can have tea." "Can I have an ice?" "I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea." "But I want an ice." "You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again." "The Awful Child of popular fiction," said Jock as he left Tony. Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea. * * * * * Rooms at the hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. "We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting-room," he said. "We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?" "Oh, Winnie can come in with me," said Milly. The two detectives who were standing nearby at the counter exchanged glances of disapproval. Tony wrote _Mr and Mrs Last_ in the Visitors' Book. "And daughter," said the clerk with his finger on the place. Tony hesitated. "She is my niece," he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as _Miss Smith_. The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, "He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is
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business hours. "Well, come and sit down. How are you both?" "I think I'm starting a cold," said Babs. "I feel awful. Why can't they heat this hole, the mean hounds?" Milly was more cheerful and swayed in her chair to the music. "Care to dance?" she said, and she and Tony began to shuffle across the empty floor. "My friend is looking for a lady to take to the seaside," said Jock. "What, this weather? That'll be a nice treat for a lonely girl." Babs sniffed into a little ball of a handkerchief. "It's for a divorce." "Oh, I see. Well, why doesn't he take Milly? She doesn't catch cold easy. Besides, she knows how to behave at an hotel. Lots of the girls here are all right to have a lark with in town, but you have to have a _lady_ for a divorce." "D'you often get asked to do that?" "Now and then. It's a nice rest--but it means so much _talking_ and the gentlemen will always go on so about their wives." While they were dancing Tony came straight to business. "I suppose you wouldn't care to come away for the week-end?" he asked. "Shouldn't mind," said Milly. "Where?" "I thought of Brighton." "Oh... Is it for a divorce?" "Yes." "You wouldn't mind if I brought my little girl with us? She wouldn't be any trouble." "Yes." "You mean you wouldn't mind?" "I mean I should mind." "Oh... You wouldn't think I had a little girl of eight, would you?" "No." "She's called Winnie. I was only sixteen when I had her. I was the youngest of the family and our stepfather wouldn't leave any of us girls alone. That's why I have to work. She lives with a lady at Finchley. Twenty-eight bob a week it costs me, not counting her clothes. She does like the seaside." "No," said Tony. "I'm sorry but it would be quite impossible. We'll get a lovely present for you to take back to her." "All right... One gentleman gave her a fairy-cycle for Christmas. She fell off and cut her knee... When do we start?" "Would you like to go by train or car?" "Oh, train. Winnie's sick if she goes in a car." "Winnie's not coming." "No, but let's go by train anyway."<|quote|>So it was decided that they should meet at Victoria on Saturday afternoon. Jock gave Babs ten shillings and he and Tony went home, Tony had not slept much lately. He could not prevent himself, when alone, from rehearsing over and over in his mind all that had happened since Beaver's visit to Hetton; searching for clues he had missed at the time; wondering where something he had said or done might have changed the course of events; going back further to his earliest acquaintance with Brenda to find indications that should have made him more ready to understand the change that had come over her; reliving scene after scene in the last eight years of his life. All this kept him awake. [II] There was a general rendezvous at the first-class booking office. The detectives were there earliest, ten minutes before their time. They had been pointed out to Tony at the solicitor's office so that he should not lose them. They were cheerful middle-aged men in soft hats and heavy overcoats. They were looking forward to their week-end, for most of their daily work consisted in standing about at street corners watching front doors, and a job of this kind was eagerly competed for in the office. In more modest divorces the solicitors were content to rely on the evidence of the hotel servants. The detectives were a luxury and proposed to treat themselves as such. There was a slight fog in London that day. The station lamps were alight prematurely. Tony came next, with Jock at his side, loyally there to see him off. They bought the tickets and waited. The detectives, sticklers for professional etiquette, made an attempt at self-effacement, studying the posters on the walls and peering from behind a pillar.</|quote|>"This is going to be hell," said Tony. It was ten minutes before Milly came. She emerged from the gloom with a porter in front carrying her suitcase and a child dragging back on her arm behind her. Milly's wardrobe consisted mainly of evening dresses, for during the day she usually spent her time sitting before a gas fire in her dressing-gown. She made an insignificant and rather respectable appearance. "Sorry if I'm late," she said. "Winnie here couldn't find her shoes. I brought her along too. I knew you wouldn't mind really. She travels on a half ticket." Winnie was a plain child with large gold-rimmed spectacles. When she spoke she revealed that two of her front teeth were missing. "I hope you don't imagine she's coming with us." "Yes, that the idea," said Milly. "She won't be any trouble--she's got her puzzle." Tony bent down to speak to the little girl. "Listen," he said. "You don't want to come to a nasty big hotel. You go with this kind gentleman here. He'll take you to a shop and let you choose the biggest doll you can find and then he'll drive you back in his motor to your home. You'll like that, won't you?" "No," said Winnie. "I want to go to the seaside. I won't go with that man. I don't want a doll. I want to go to the seaside with my mummy." Several people besides the detectives were beginning to take notice of the oddly assorted group. "Oh God!" said Tony. "I suppose she's got to come." The detectives followed at a distance down the platform. Tony settled his companions in a Pullman car. "Look," said Milly, "we're travelling first-class. Isn't that fun? We can have tea." "Can I have an ice?" "I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea." "But I want an ice." "You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again." "The Awful Child of popular fiction," said Jock as he left Tony. Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea. * * * * * Rooms at the hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. "We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting-room," he said. "We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?" "Oh, Winnie can come in with me," said Milly. The two detectives
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."
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Isabella Thorpe
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"How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again.
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"Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very
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if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where
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this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think
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you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you
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be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you." "Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?" "I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of
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have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it. CHAPTER 6 The following conversation, which took place between the two friends in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment. They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!" "Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?" "Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?" "Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil." "Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?" "Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina s skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you." "Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?" "I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance answering that description." "Betray you! What do you mean?" "Nay, do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject." Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina s skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there." Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine s employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men. "They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up." In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room. "And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man." "They went towards the church-yard." "Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it." Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she
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the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world." "Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you." "Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?" "I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it." "Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?" "Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for _you_ are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men." "Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"<|quote|>"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly I am sure he is in love with you."</|quote|>Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody s admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" speaking more seriously "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings." "But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again." "Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!" "No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina s skeleton behind it." "It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels." "No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself; but new books do not fall in our way." "Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Andrews could not get through the first volume." "It is not like Udolpho at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining." "Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you settled what to wear on your head tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you. The men take notice of _that_ sometimes, you know." "But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently. "Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance." "Are they? Well, I never observed _that_. They always behave very well to me." "Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most conceited creatures in the world, and think themselves of so much importance! By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?" "I hardly know. I never much thought about it. Something between both, I think. Brown not fair, and and not very dark." "Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Mr. Tilney a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather dark hair. Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to complexion do you know I like a sallow better than any other. You must not betray me, if you should ever
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Northanger Abbey
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“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”
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Wolfshiem
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in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit
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Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports
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his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned
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inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer
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I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. “How did
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by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. “How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute. “He just saw the opportunity.” “Why isn’t he in jail?” “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.” I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. “Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.” When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.” “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face. “How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?” “I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.” I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One October day in nineteen-seventeen— (said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel) —I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was
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mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole.” “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. “ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, move outside this room.’ “It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.” “Did he go?” I asked innocently. “Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.” “Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. “Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. “I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me: “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” “No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed. “This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.” “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. “Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.” There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. “I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?” “Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all right.” Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. “He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. “How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute. “He just saw the opportunity.” “Why isn’t he in jail?” “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.” I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. “Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.” When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.” “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face. “How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?” “I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.” I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One October day in nineteen-seventeen— (said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel) —I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way. The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways, for an hour!” When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away. “Hello, Jordan.” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.” I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I didn’t realize it was the same man. That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks.
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to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.” “Yes.” “He’s an Oggsford man.” “Oh!” “He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” “I’ve heard of it.” “It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” “Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem raised his hand in a sort of benediction.<|quote|>“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,”</|quote|>he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on you any longer.” As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. “He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a denizen of Broadway.” “Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” “No.” “A dentist?” “Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” “Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. “How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute. “He just saw the opportunity.” “Why isn’t he in jail?” “They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.” I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. “Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to someone.” When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our direction. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you haven’t called up.” “This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face. “How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to come up this far to eat?” “I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.” I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One October day in nineteen-seventeen— (said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel) —I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way. The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways, for an hour!” When I came
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The Great Gatsby
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"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"
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Mrs. Hilbery
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the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I
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atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one
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of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s
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poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse.
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what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious," Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter, "how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I
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epigrams all the time, and I got so nervous, expecting them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious," Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter, "how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house
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and stretched his hand for a book lying on the table by his side. Directly the door opened he closed the book, and the eyes of father and mother both rested on Katharine as she came towards them. The sight seemed at once to give them a motive which they had not had before. To them she appeared, as she walked towards them in her light evening dress, extremely young, and the sight of her refreshed them, were it only because her youth and ignorance made their knowledge of the world of some value. "The only excuse for you, Katharine, is that dinner is still later than you are," said Mr. Hilbery, putting down his spectacles. "I don t mind her being late when the result is so charming," said Mrs. Hilbery, looking with pride at her daughter. "Still, I don t know that I _like_ your being out so late, Katharine," she continued. "You took a cab, I hope?" Here dinner was announced, and Mr. Hilbery formally led his wife downstairs on his arm. They were all dressed for dinner, and, indeed, the prettiness of the dinner-table merited that compliment. There was no cloth upon the table, and the china made regular circles of deep blue upon the shining brown wood. In the middle there was a bowl of tawny red and yellow chrysanthemums, and one of pure white, so fresh that the narrow petals were curved backwards into a firm white ball. From the surrounding walls the heads of three famous Victorian writers surveyed this entertainment, and slips of paper pasted beneath them testified in the great man s own handwriting that he was yours sincerely or affectionately or for ever. The father and daughter would have been quite content, apparently, to eat their dinner in silence, or with a few cryptic remarks expressed in a shorthand which could not be understood by the servants. But silence depressed Mrs. Hilbery, and far from minding the presence of maids, she would often address herself to them, and was never altogether unconscious of their approval or disapproval of her remarks. In the first place she called them to witness that the room was darker than usual, and had all the lights turned on. "That s more cheerful," she exclaimed. "D you know, Katharine, that ridiculous goose came to tea with me? Oh, how I wanted you! He tried to make epigrams all the time, and I got so nervous, expecting them, you know, that I spilt the tea and he made an epigram about that!" "Which ridiculous goose?" Katharine asked her father. "Only one of my geese, happily, makes epigrams Augustus Pelham, of course," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I m not sorry that I was out," said Katharine. "Poor Augustus!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "But we re all too hard on him. Remember how devoted he is to his tiresome old mother." "That s only because she is his mother. Any one connected with himself" "No, no, Katharine that s too bad. That s what s the word I mean, Trevor, something long and Latin the sort of word you and Katharine know" Mr. Hilbery suggested "cynical." "Well, that ll do. I don t believe in sending girls to college, but I should teach them that sort of thing. It makes one feel so dignified, bringing out these little allusions, and passing on gracefully to the next topic. But I don t know what s come over me I actually had to ask Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious," Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter, "how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for an intimate postscript to what had been said at dinner, the sense of being women together coming out most strongly when the male sex was, as if by some religious rite, secluded from the female. Katharine knew by heart the sort of mood that possessed her as she walked upstairs to the drawing-room, her mother s arm in hers; and she could anticipate the pleasure with which, when she had turned on the lights, they both regarded the drawing-room, fresh swept and set in order for the last section of the day, with the red parrots swinging on the chintz curtains, and the arm-chairs warming in the blaze. Mrs. Hilbery stood over the fire, with one foot on the fender, and her skirts slightly raised. "Oh, Katharine," she exclaimed, "how you ve made me think of Mamma and the old days in Russell Square! I can see the chandeliers, and the green silk of the piano, and Mamma sitting in her cashmere shawl by the window, singing till the little ragamuffin boys outside stopped to listen. Papa sent me in with a bunch of violets while he waited round the corner. It must have been a summer evening. That was before things were hopeless...." As she spoke an expression of regret, which must have come frequently to cause the lines which now grew deep round the lips and eyes, settled on her face. The poet s marriage had not been a happy one. He had left his wife, and after some years of a rather reckless existence, she had died, before her time. This disaster had
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Augustus the name of the lady Hamlet was in love with, as you were out, Katharine, and Heaven knows what he mayn t put down about me in his diary." "I wish," Katharine started, with great impetuosity, and checked herself. Her mother always stirred her to feel and think quickly, and then she remembered that her father was there, listening with attention. "What is it you wish?" he asked, as she paused. He often surprised her, thus, into telling him what she had not meant to tell him; and then they argued, while Mrs. Hilbery went on with her own thoughts. "I wish mother wasn t famous. I was out at tea, and they would talk to me about poetry." "Thinking you must be poetical, I see and aren t you?" "Who s been talking to you about poetry, Katharine?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded, and Katharine was committed to giving her parents an account of her visit to the Suffrage office. "They have an office at the top of one of the old houses in Russell Square. I never saw such queer-looking people. And the man discovered I was related to the poet, and talked to me about poetry. Even Mary Datchet seems different in that atmosphere." "Yes, the office atmosphere is very bad for the soul," said Mr. Hilbery.<|quote|>"I don t remember any offices in Russell Square in the old days, when Mamma lived there,"</|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused, "and I can t fancy turning one of those noble great rooms into a stuffy little Suffrage office. Still, if the clerks read poetry there must be something nice about them." "No, because they don t read it as we read it," Katharine insisted. "But it s nice to think of them reading your grandfather, and not filling up those dreadful little forms all day long," Mrs. Hilbery persisted, her notion of office life being derived from some chance view of a scene behind the counter at her bank, as she slipped the sovereigns into her purse. "At any rate, they haven t made a convert of Katharine, which was what I was afraid of," Mr. Hilbery remarked. "Oh no," said Katharine very decidedly, "I wouldn t work with them for anything." "It s curious," Mr. Hilbery continued, agreeing with his daughter, "how the sight of one s fellow-enthusiasts always chokes one off. They show up the faults of one s cause so much more plainly than one s antagonists. One can be enthusiastic in one s study, but directly one comes into touch with the people who agree with one, all the glamor goes. So I ve always found," and he proceeded to tell them, as he peeled his apple, how he committed himself once, in his youthful days, to make a speech at a political meeting, and went there ablaze with enthusiasm for the ideals of his own side; but while his leaders spoke, he became gradually converted to the other way of thinking, if thinking it could be called, and had to feign illness in order to avoid making a fool of himself an experience which had sickened him of public meetings. Katharine listened and felt as she generally did when her father, and to some extent her mother, described their feelings, that she quite understood and agreed with them, but, at the same time, saw something which they did not see, and always felt some disappointment when they fell short of her vision, as they always did. The plates succeeded each other swiftly and noiselessly in front of her, and the table was decked for dessert, and as the talk murmured on in familiar grooves, she sat there, rather like a judge, listening to her parents, who did, indeed, feel it very pleasant when they made her laugh. Daily life in a house where there are young and old is full of curious little ceremonies and pieties, which are discharged quite punctually, though the meaning of them is obscure, and a mystery has come to brood over them which lends even a superstitious charm to their performance. Such was the nightly ceremony of the cigar and the glass of port, which were placed on the right hand and on the left hand of Mr. Hilbery, and simultaneously Mrs. Hilbery and Katharine left the room. All the years they had lived together they had never seen Mr. Hilbery smoke his cigar or drink his port, and they would have felt it unseemly if, by chance, they had surprised him as he sat there. These short, but clearly marked, periods of separation between the sexes were always used for
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