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"Suggestive, or not,"
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John Cavendish
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the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most
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you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for
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she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and
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John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias." John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past. "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the
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Poirot pleasantly. The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window. We all looked at each other. "Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence." "How a coincidence?" "That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!" Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily: "Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?" "What do you mean?" "Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday afternoon" "What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias." John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past. "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall. Poirot looked inquiringly at me. "Miss Howard," I explained. "Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!" I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How
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down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." "Well?" "Well, he did, sir." "And what happened next?" "We went on with the begonias, sir." "Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?" "Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called." "And then?" "She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper under where she'd signed." "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply. "No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part." "And you signed where she told you?" "Yes, sir, first me and then Willum." "What did she do with it afterwards?" "Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk." "What time was it when she first called you?" "About four, I should say, sir." "Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?" "No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four not before it." "Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly. The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window. We all looked at each other. "Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence." "How a coincidence?" "That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!" Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily: "Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?" "What do you mean?" "Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday afternoon" "What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias." John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past. "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall. Poirot looked inquiringly at me. "Miss Howard," I explained. "Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!" I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes? I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness. "Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here." "Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John. "No." "I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me. "Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie." Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John. "What do you mean helping
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_is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here." "Yes, sir." Dorcas withdrew. We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase. The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded. "Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you." Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech. "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer." "Yessir," mumbled Manning. Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt. "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?" "Yes, sir, me and Willum." "And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?" "Yes, sir, she did." "Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that." "Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." "Well?" "Well, he did, sir." "And what happened next?" "We went on with the begonias, sir." "Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?" "Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called." "And then?" "She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper under where she'd signed." "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply. "No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part." "And you signed where she told you?" "Yes, sir, first me and then Willum." "What did she do with it afterwards?" "Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk." "What time was it when she first called you?" "About four, I should say, sir." "Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?" "No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four not before it." "Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly. The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window. We all looked at each other. "Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence." "How a coincidence?" "That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!" Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily: "Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?" "What do you mean?" "Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday afternoon" "What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias." John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past. "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall. Poirot looked inquiringly at me. "Miss Howard," I explained. "Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!" I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes? I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness. "Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here." "Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John. "No." "I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me. "Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie." Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John. "What do you mean helping us?" "Helping us to investigate." "Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?" "Taken who to prison?" "Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!" "My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure." "More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily as I always told you he would." "My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn't until Friday." "Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and wait to be hanged." John Cavendish looked at her helplessly. "I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about" heart seizure' "and" inquest on Friday.' "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish." "What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint smile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck." "Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask cook if she's missed any." It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately. Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over
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round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech. "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer." "Yessir," mumbled Manning. Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt. "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?" "Yes, sir, me and Willum." "And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?" "Yes, sir, she did." "Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that." "Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like I don't know what exactly she wrote it down for him." "Well?" "Well, he did, sir." "And what happened next?" "We went on with the begonias, sir." "Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?" "Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called." "And then?" "She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper under where she'd signed." "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply. "No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part." "And you signed where she told you?" "Yes, sir, first me and then Willum." "What did she do with it afterwards?" "Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk." "What time was it when she first called you?" "About four, I should say, sir." "Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?" "No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four not before it." "Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly. The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window. We all looked at each other. "Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence." "How a coincidence?" "That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!" Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily: "Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?" "What do you mean?" "Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with someone yesterday afternoon" "What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale. "In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."<|quote|>"Suggestive, or not,"</|quote|>interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?" Poirot smiled and answered: "A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias." John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past. "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall. Poirot looked inquiringly at me. "Miss Howard," I explained. "Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!" I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind.
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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replied Margaret;
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No speaker
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had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told
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to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This
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Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am.
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"I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of
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paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
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secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part
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lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed." Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you." This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident. Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves. "Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she
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by themselves. "Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_." "But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book." For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself. Margaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it,"<|quote|>replied Margaret;</|quote|>"it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that
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Sense And Sensibility
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"Pathetic,"
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Eeyore
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at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it
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of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and
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home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody
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head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the
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on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being
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things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had."
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and by Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke he said to himself, "Oh!" Then he said bravely, "Yes," and then, still more bravely, "Quite so." But he didn't feel very brave, for the word which was really jiggeting about in his brain was "Heffalumps." What was a Heffalump like? Was it Fierce? _Did_ it come when you whistled? And _how_ did it come? Was it Fond of Pigs at all? If it was Fond of Pigs, did it make any difference _what sort of Pig_? Supposing it was Fierce with Pigs, would it make any difference _if the Pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM_? He didn't know the answer to any of these questions ... and he was going to see his first Heffalump in about an hour from now! Of course Pooh would be with him, and it was much more Friendly with two. But suppose Heffalumps were Very Fierce with Pigs _and_ Bears? Wouldn't it be better to pretend that he had a headache, and couldn't go up to the Six Pine Trees this morning? But then suppose that it was a very fine day, and there was no Heffalump in the trap, here he would be, in bed all the morning, simply wasting his time for nothing. What should he do? And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there _was_ a Heffalump there. And if there was, he would go back to bed, and if there wasn't, he wouldn't. So off he went. At first he thought that there wouldn't be a Heffalump in the Trap, and then he thought that there would, and as he got nearer he was _sure_ that there would, because he could hear it heffalumping about it like anything. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!" said Piglet to himself. And he wanted to run away. But somehow, having got so near, he felt that he must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself." "I am," said Pooh. "Some can," said Eeyore. "Why, what's the matter?" "_Is_ anything the matter?" "You seem so sad, Eeyore." "Sad? Why should I be sad? It's my birthday. The happiest day of the year." "Your birthday?" said Pooh in great surprise. "Of course it is. Can't you see? Look at all the presents I have had." He waved a foot from side to side. "Look at the birthday cake. Candles and pink sugar." Pooh looked--first to the right and then to the left. "Presents?" said Pooh. "Birthday cake?" said Pooh. "_Where?_" "Can't you see them?" "No," said Pooh. "Neither can I," said Eeyore. "Joke," he explained. "Ha ha!" Pooh scratched his head, being a little puzzled by all this. "But is it really your birthday?" he asked. "It is." "Oh! Well, Many happy returns of the day, Eeyore." "And many happy returns to you, Pooh Bear." "But it isn't _my_ birthday." "No, it's mine." "But you said 'Many happy returns'----" "Well, why not? You don't always want to be miserable on my birthday, do you?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "It's bad enough," said Eeyore, almost breaking down, "being miserable myself, what with no presents and no cake and no candles, and no proper notice taken of me at all, but if everybody else is going to be miserable too----" This was too much for Pooh. "Stay there!" he called to Eeyore, as he turned and hurried back home as quick as he could; for he felt that he must get poor Eeyore a present of _some_ sort at once, and he could always think of a proper one afterwards. Outside his house he found Piglet, jumping up and down trying to reach the knocker. "Hallo, Piglet," he said. "Hallo, Pooh," said Piglet. "What are _you_ trying to do?" "I was trying to reach the knocker," said Piglet. "I just came round----" "Let me do it for you," said Pooh kindly. So he reached up and knocked at the door. "I have just seen Eeyore," he began, "and poor Eeyore is in a Very Sad Condition, because it's his birthday, and nobody has taken any notice of it, and he's very Gloomy--you know what Eeyore is--and there he was, and----What a long time whoever lives here is answering this door." And he knocked again. "But Pooh," said Piglet, "it's your own house!" "Oh!" said Pooh. "So it is," he said. "Well, let's go in." So in they went. The first thing Pooh did was to go to the cupboard to see if he had quite a small jar of honey left; and he had, so he took it down. "I'm giving this to Eeyore," he explained, "as a present. What are _you_ going to give?" "Couldn't
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must just see what a Heffalump was like. So he crept to the side of the Trap and looked in.... And all the time Winnie-the-Pooh had been trying to get the honey-jar off his head. The more he shook it, the more tightly it stuck. "_Bother!_" he said, inside the jar, and "_Oh, help!_" and, mostly, "_Ow!_" And he tried bumping it against things, but as he couldn't see what he was bumping it against, it didn't help him; and he tried to climb out of the Trap, but as he could see nothing but jar, and not much of that, he couldn't find his way. So at last he lifted up his head, jar and all, and made a loud, roaring noise of Sadness and Despair ... and it was at that moment that Piglet looked down. "Help, help!" cried Piglet, "a Heffalump, a Horrible Heffalump!" and he scampered off as hard as he could, still crying out, "Help, help, a Herrible Hoffalump! Hoff, Hoff, a Hellible Horralump! Holl, Holl, a Hoffable Hellerump!" And he didn't stop crying and scampering until he got to Christopher Robin's house. "Whatever's the matter, Piglet?" said Christopher Robin, who was just getting up. "Heff," said Piglet, breathing so hard that he could hardly speak, "a Heff--a Heff--a Heffalump." "Where?" "Up there," said Piglet, waving his paw. "What did it look like?" "Like--like----It had the biggest head you ever saw, Christopher Robin. A great enormous thing, like--like nothing. A huge big--well, like a--I don't know--like an enormous big nothing. Like a jar." "Well," said Christopher Robin, putting on his shoes, "I shall go and look at it. Come on." Piglet wasn't afraid if he had Christopher Robin with him, so off they went.... "I can hear it, can't you?" said Piglet anxiously, as they got near. "I can hear _something_," said Christopher Robin. It was Pooh bumping his head against a tree-root he had found. "There!" said Piglet. "Isn't it _awful_?" And he held on tight to Christopher Robin's hand. Suddenly Christopher Robin began to laugh ... and he laughed ... and he laughed ... and he laughed. And while he was still laughing--_Crash_ went the Heffalump's head against the tree-root, Smash went the jar, and out came Pooh's head again.... Then Piglet saw what a Foolish Piglet he had been, and he was so ashamed of himself that he ran straight off home and went to bed with a headache. But Christopher Robin and Pooh went home to breakfast together. "Oh, Bear!" said Christopher Robin. "How I do love you!" "So do I," said Pooh. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH EEYORE HAS A BIRTHDAY AND GETS TWO PRESENTS Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.<|quote|>"Pathetic,"</|quote|>he said. "That's what it is. Pathetic." He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again. "As I thought," he said. "No better from _this_ side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that's what it is." There was a crackling noise in the bracken behind him, and out came Pooh. "Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Why, what's the matter?" "Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it." "Can't all _what_?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose. "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." "Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?" "Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is." Pooh sat down on a large stone, and tried to think this out. It sounded to him like a riddle, and he was never much good at riddles, being a Bear of Very Little Brain. So he sang _Cottleston Pie_ instead: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie._"" That was the first verse. When he had finished it, Eeyore didn't actually say that he didn't like it, so Pooh very kindly sang the second verse to him: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" Eeyore still said nothing at all, so Pooh hummed the third verse quietly to himself: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken, I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "_Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie_."" "That's right," said Eeyore. "Sing. Umty-tiddly, umty-too. Here we go gathering Nuts and May. Enjoy yourself."
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Winnie The Pooh
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"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."
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Tanya Pesotsky
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looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your
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Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on
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creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud
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freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was
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that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost." "You don't say so." He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it
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properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost." "You don't say so." He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it." She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly: "'Onyegin, I won't conceal it; I madly love Tatiana....'" By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up. Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered, corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast that it was hard work to
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up with a plaintive cry, and there one always felt that one must sit down and write a ballad. But near the house itself, in the courtyard and orchard, which together with the nurseries covered ninety acres, it was all life and gaiety even in bad weather. Such marvellous roses, lilies, camellias; such tulips of all possible shades, from glistening white to sooty black--such a wealth of flowers, in fact, Kovrin had never seen anywhere as at Pesotsky's. It was only the beginning of spring, and the real glory of the flower-beds was still hidden away in the hot-houses. But even the flowers along the avenues, and here and there in the flower-beds, were enough to make one feel, as one walked about the garden, as though one were in a realm of tender colours, especially in the early morning when the dew was glistening on every petal. What was the decorative part of the garden, and what Pesotsky contemptuously spoke of as rubbish, had at one time in his childhood given Kovrin an impression of fairyland. Every sort of caprice, of elaborate monstrosity and mockery at Nature was here. There were espaliers of fruit-trees, a pear-tree in the shape of a pyramidal poplar, spherical oaks and lime-trees, an apple-tree in the shape of an umbrella, plum-trees trained into arches, crests, candelabra, and even into the number 1862--the year when Pesotsky first took up horticulture. One came across, too, lovely, graceful trees with strong, straight stems like palms, and it was only by looking intently that one could recognise these trees as gooseberries or currants. But what made the garden most cheerful and gave it a lively air, was the continual coming and going in it, from early morning till evening; people with wheelbarrows, shovels, and watering-cans swarmed round the trees and bushes, in the avenues and the flower-beds, like ants.... Kovrin arrived at Pesotsky's at ten o'clock in the evening. He found Tanya and her father, Yegor Semyonitch, in great anxiety. The clear starlight sky and the thermometer foretold a frost towards morning, and meanwhile Ivan Karlovitch, the gardener, had gone to the town, and they had no one to rely upon. At supper they talked of nothing but the morning frost, and it was settled that Tanya should not go to bed, and between twelve and one should walk through the garden, and see that everything was done properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost." "You don't say so." He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it." She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly: "'Onyegin, I won't conceal it; I madly love Tatiana....'" By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up. Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered, corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast that it was hard work to hurry after him. He had an extremely preoccupied air; he was always hurrying somewhere, with an expression that suggested that if he were one minute late all would be ruined! "Here is a business, brother ..." he began, standing still to take breath. "On the surface of the ground, as you see, is frost; but if you raise the thermometer on a stick fourteen feet above the ground, there it is warm.... Why is that?" "I really don't know," said Kovrin, and he laughed. "H'm!... One can't know everything, of course.... However large the intellect may be, you can't find room for everything in it. I suppose you still go in chiefly for philosophy?" "Yes, I lecture in psychology; I am working at philosophy in general." "And it does not bore you?" "On the contrary, it's all I live for." "Well, God bless you!..." said Yegor Semyonitch, meditatively stroking his grey whiskers. "God bless you!... I am delighted about you ... delighted, my boy...." But suddenly he listened, and, with a terrible face, ran off and quickly disappeared behind the trees in a cloud of smoke. "Who tied this horse to an apple-tree?" Kovrin heard his despairing, heart-rending cry. "Who is the low scoundrel who has dared to tie this horse to an apple-tree? My God, my God! They have ruined everything; they have spoilt everything; they have done everything filthy, horrible, and abominable. The orchard's done for, the orchard's ruined. My God!" When he came back to Kovrin, his face looked exhausted and mortified. "What is one to do with these accursed people?" he said in a tearful voice, flinging up his hands. "Styopka was carting dung at night, and tied the horse to an apple-tree! He twisted the reins round it, the rascal, as tightly as he could, so that the bark is rubbed off in three places. What do you think of that! I spoke to him and he stands like a post and only blinks his eyes. Hanging is too good for him." Growing calmer, he embraced Kovrin and kissed him on the cheek. "Well, God bless you!... God bless you!..." he muttered. "I am very glad you have come. Unutterably glad.... Thank you." Then, with the same rapid step and preoccupied face, he made the round of the whole garden, and showed his former ward all his greenhouses and hot-houses, his covered-in garden, and two
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Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost." "You don't say so." He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face:<|quote|>"do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that."</|quote|>"I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it." She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly: "'Onyegin, I won't conceal it; I madly love Tatiana....'" By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up. Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered, corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast that it was hard work to hurry after him. He had an extremely preoccupied air; he was always hurrying somewhere, with an expression that suggested that if he were one minute late all would be ruined! "Here is a business, brother ..." he began, standing still to take breath. "On the surface of the ground, as you see, is frost; but if you raise the thermometer on a stick fourteen feet above the ground, there it is warm.... Why is that?" "I really don't know," said Kovrin, and he laughed. "H'm!... One can't know everything, of course.... However large the intellect may be, you can't find room for everything in it. I suppose you still go
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (6)
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"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"
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Mrs. Elton
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hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest
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correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent
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have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye,
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acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter,
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it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey." "Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses."
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time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey." "Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses." "The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the
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world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it even of _him_." Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it. "Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma." The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body. "Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way." Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable. Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey." "Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses." "The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?" "Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for" "-- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with, "Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea." "Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld." Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on. "Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness." "If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired." "Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society." "Frank was here in February for a fortnight." "So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society of
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friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard already. It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. CHAPTER XVIII "I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you," said Mr. Weston. Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously. "You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--" "and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name." "Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage." "You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.-- He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."<|quote|>"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--"</|quote|>(laughing affectedly) "I must protest against that.--A most dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!" "Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to move southward without loss of time." "Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?" "Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a considerable journey." "Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses." "The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that." "No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would
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Emma
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"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."
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Lucy
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so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George;
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was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care
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I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you
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he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To
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not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?" Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps. "After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?" "I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it." "Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the
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"I don't know," gasped Lucy. "I don't understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it." "But Mr. Eager--he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don't blame him or any one... but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it." It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God. "Oh, how terrible!" said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last. "He was not baptized," said the old man. "I did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to the earth untouched." She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. "Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?" Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps. "After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?" "I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it." "Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was
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he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet" "--his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain--" "Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?" Lucy selected a book--a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son." "But you do remember it?" "He has misbehaved himself from the first." "I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has." Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. "Why, he has behaved abominably," she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?" "Not 'abominably," '" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life saying he is abominable." "No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. "'Abominable' "is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late--" "Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly. "What was that?" "Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest. "I don't understand." "As his mother did." "But, Mr. Emerson--MR. EMERSON--what are you talking about?" "When I wouldn't have George baptized," said he. Lucy was frightened. "And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement." He shuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?" "I don't know," gasped Lucy. "I don't understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it." "But Mr. Eager--he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don't blame him or any one... but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it." It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God. "Oh, how terrible!" said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last. "He was not baptized," said the old man. "I did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to the earth untouched." She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. "Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?" Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps. "After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?" "I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it." "Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young
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old man. "I did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to the earth untouched." She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill. "Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?" Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps. "After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?" "I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it." "Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is." "Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house." It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good everyone is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."<|quote|>"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."</|quote|>"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened." "Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece." "All the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made
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A Room With A View
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he tells them,
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No speaker
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"We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a
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his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you
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bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes
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I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a
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she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a man do, then?" asks one of them. "Say No. You are here to be cured of your wound, not your flat feet. Did you have any trouble with them in the field? No, well, there you are! At present you can still walk, but if once the old boy gets you under the knife you'll be cripples. What he wants is little dogs to experiment with, so the war is a glorious time for him, as it is for all the surgeons. You take a look down below at the staff; there are a dozen fellows hobbling around that he
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he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?" "Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course." * * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a man do, then?" asks one of them. "Say No. You are here to be cured of your wound, not your flat feet. Did you have any trouble with them in the field? No, well, there you are! At present you can still walk, but if once the old boy gets you under the knife you'll be cripples. What he wants is little dogs to experiment with, so the war is a glorious time for him, as it is for all the surgeons. You take a look down below at the staff; there are a dozen fellows hobbling around that he has operated on. A lot of them have been here all the time since 'fourteen and 'fifteen. Not a single one of them can walk better than he could before, almost all of them worse, and most only with plaster legs. Every six months he catches them again and breaks their bones afresh, and every time is going to be the successful one. You take my word, he won't dare to do it if you say No." "Ach, man," says one of the two unfortunates, "better your feet than your brain-box. There's no telling what you'll get if you go back out there again? They can do with me just as they please, so long as I get back home. Better to have a club foot than be dead." The other, a young fellow like ourselves, won't have it done. One morning the old man has the two hauled up and lectures and jaws at them so long, that in the end they consent. What else could they do?--They are mere privates, and he is a big bug. They are brought back chloroformed and plastered. * * It is going badly with Albert. They have taken him and amputated his
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added to that is the everlasting praying. "Should we smash a bottle?" asks Josef Hamacher of the shooting licence. "She wouldn't hear that any more than the bell." At last the door opens. The old lady appears, mumbling. When she perceives Franz's trouble she begins to bustle, and says: "Why did not someone say I was wanted?" "We did ring. And none of us here can walk." He has been bleeding badly and she binds him up. In the morning we look at his face, it has become sharp and yellow, whereas the evening before he looked almost healthy. Now a sister comes oftener. * * Sometimes there are red-cross voluntary aid sisters. They are pleasant, but often rather unskilled. They frequently give us pain when re-making our beds, and then are so frightened that they hurt us still more. The nuns are more reliable. They know how they must take hold of us, but we would be more pleased if they were somewhat more cheerful. A few of them have real spirit, they are superb. There is no one who would not do anything for Sister Libertine, this marvellous sister, who spreads good cheer through the whole wing even when she can only be seen in the distance. And there are others like her. We would go through fire for her. A man cannot really complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian. On the other hand, just to think of a garrison hospital gives a man the creeps. Franz Wachter does not regain his strength. One day he is taken away and does not come back. Josef Hamacher knows all about it: "We shan't see him again. They have put him in the dead room." "What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp. "Well, Dying Room----" "What is that, then?" "A little room at the corner of the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?" "Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course." * * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a man do, then?" asks one of them. "Say No. You are here to be cured of your wound, not your flat feet. Did you have any trouble with them in the field? No, well, there you are! At present you can still walk, but if once the old boy gets you under the knife you'll be cripples. What he wants is little dogs to experiment with, so the war is a glorious time for him, as it is for all the surgeons. You take a look down below at the staff; there are a dozen fellows hobbling around that he has operated on. A lot of them have been here all the time since 'fourteen and 'fifteen. Not a single one of them can walk better than he could before, almost all of them worse, and most only with plaster legs. Every six months he catches them again and breaks their bones afresh, and every time is going to be the successful one. You take my word, he won't dare to do it if you say No." "Ach, man," says one of the two unfortunates, "better your feet than your brain-box. There's no telling what you'll get if you go back out there again? They can do with me just as they please, so long as I get back home. Better to have a club foot than be dead." The other, a young fellow like ourselves, won't have it done. One morning the old man has the two hauled up and lectures and jaws at them so long, that in the end they consent. What else could they do?--They are mere privates, and he is a big bug. They are brought back chloroformed and plastered. * * It is going badly with Albert. They have taken him and amputated his leg. The whole leg has been taken off from the thigh. Now he hardly speaks any more. Once he says he will shoot himself the first time he can get hold of his revolver again. A new convoy arrives. Our room gets two blind men. One of them is a very youthful musician. The sisters never have a knife with them when they feed him; he has already snatched one from a sister. But in spite of this caution there is an incident. In the evening, while he is being fed, the sister is called away, and leaves the plate with the fork on his table. He gropes for the fork, seizes it and drives it with all his force against his heart, then he snatches up a shoe and strikes with it against the handle as hard as he can. We call for help and three men are necessary to take the fork away from him. The blunt prongs had already penetrated deep. He abuses us all night so that no one can go to sleep. In the morning he has lock-jaw. Again beds become empty. Day after day goes by with pain and fear, groans and death-gurgles. Even the Death Room is no use any more, it is too small; fellows die during the night in our room. They go even faster than the sisters can cope with them. But one day the door flies open, the flat trolley rolls in, and there on the stretcher, pale, thin, upright and triumphant, with his shaggy head of curls sits Peter. Sister Libertine with beaming looks pushes him over to his former bed. He is back from the Dying Room. We have long supposed him dead. He looks round: "What do you say now?" And even Josef has to admit that it is the first time he has ever known of such a thing. * * Gradually a few of us venture to stand up. And I am given crutches to hobble around on. But I do not make much use of them; I cannot bear Albert's gaze as I move about the room. His eyes always follow me with such a strange look. So I sometimes escape to the corridor;--there I can move about more freely. On the next floor below are the abdominal and spine cases, head wounds and double amputations. On the right side of the wing
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the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?" "Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course." * * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right,"<|quote|>he tells them,</|quote|>"we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a man do, then?" asks one of them. "Say No. You are here to be cured of your wound, not your flat feet. Did you have any trouble with them in the field? No, well, there you are! At present you can still walk, but if once the old boy gets you under the knife you'll be cripples. What he wants is little dogs to experiment with, so the war is a glorious time for him, as it is for all the surgeons. You take a look down below at the staff; there are a dozen fellows hobbling around that he has operated on. A lot of them have been here all the time since 'fourteen and 'fifteen. Not a single one of them can walk better than he could before, almost all of them worse, and most only with plaster legs. Every six months he catches them again and breaks their bones afresh, and every time is going to be the successful one. You take my word, he won't dare to do it if you say No." "Ach, man," says one of the two unfortunates, "better your feet than your brain-box. There's no telling what you'll get if you go back out there again? They can
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.
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No speaker
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work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My
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upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last
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glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we
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launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don
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moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully, "It s all so _simple_." She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is
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she was indisposed. "I m frightfully lazy this afternoon," she added, with a glance at her table. "You must really get another secretary, Sally." The words were meant to be taken lightly, but something in the tone of them roused a jealous fear which was always dormant in Mrs. Seal s breast. She was terribly afraid that one of these days Mary, the young woman who typified so many rather sentimental and enthusiastic ideas, who had some sort of visionary existence in white with a sheaf of lilies in her hand, would announce, in a jaunty way, that she was about to be married. "You don t mean that you re going to leave us?" she said. "I ve not made up my mind about anything," said Mary a remark which could be taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully, "It s all so _simple_." She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt.
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way, either to move, to count money, or to choose a turning. "To know the truth to accept without bitterness" those, perhaps, were the most articulate of her utterances, for no one could have made head or tail of the queer gibberish murmured in front of the statue of Francis, Duke of Bedford, save that the name of Ralph occurred frequently in very strange connections, as if, having spoken it, she wished, superstitiously, to cancel it by adding some other word that robbed the sentence with his name in it of any meaning. Those champions of the cause of women, Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal, did not perceive anything strange in Mary s behavior, save that she was almost half an hour later than usual in coming back to the office. Happily, their own affairs kept them busy, and she was free from their inspection. If they had surprised her they would have found her lost, apparently, in admiration of the large hotel across the square, for, after writing a few words, her pen rested upon the paper, and her mind pursued its own journey among the sun-blazoned windows and the drifts of purplish smoke which formed her view. And, indeed, this background was by no means out of keeping with her thoughts. She saw to the remote spaces behind the strife of the foreground, enabled now to gaze there, since she had renounced her own demands, privileged to see the larger view, to share the vast desires and sufferings of the mass of mankind. She had been too lately and too roughly mastered by facts to take an easy pleasure in the relief of renunciation; such satisfaction as she felt came only from the discovery that, having renounced everything that made life happy, easy, splendid, individual, there remained a hard reality, unimpaired by one s personal adventures, remote as the stars, unquenchable as they are. While Mary Datchet was undergoing this curious transformation from the particular to the universal, Mrs. Seal remembered her duties with regard to the kettle and the gas-fire. She was a little surprised to find that Mary had drawn her chair to the window, and, having lit the gas, she raised herself from a stooping posture and looked at her. The most obvious reason for such an attitude in a secretary was some kind of indisposition. But Mary, rousing herself with an effort, denied that she was indisposed. "I m frightfully lazy this afternoon," she added, with a glance at her table. "You must really get another secretary, Sally." The words were meant to be taken lightly, but something in the tone of them roused a jealous fear which was always dormant in Mrs. Seal s breast. She was terribly afraid that one of these days Mary, the young woman who typified so many rather sentimental and enthusiastic ideas, who had some sort of visionary existence in white with a sheaf of lilies in her hand, would announce, in a jaunty way, that she was about to be married. "You don t mean that you re going to leave us?" she said. "I ve not made up my mind about anything," said Mary a remark which could be taken as a generalization. Mrs. Seal got the teacups out of the cupboard and set them on the table. "You re not going to be married, are you?" she asked, pronouncing the words with nervous speed. "Why are you asking such absurd questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully, "It s all so _simple_." She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without Reality?" Doing homage to the phrase, she repeated it once more, and caught the ear of Mr. Clacton, as he issued from his room; and he repeated it a third time, giving it, as he was in the habit of doing with Mrs. Seal s phrases, a dryly humorous intonation. He was well pleased with the world, however, and he remarked, in a flattering manner, that he would like to see that phrase in large letters at the head of a leaflet. "But, Mrs. Seal, we have to aim at a judicious combination of the two," he added in his magisterial way to check the unbalanced enthusiasm of the women. "Reality has to be voiced by reason before it can make itself felt. The weak point of all these movements, Miss Datchet," he continued, taking his place at the table and turning to Mary as usual when about to deliver his more profound cogitations, "is that they are not based upon sufficiently intellectual grounds. A mistake, in my opinion. The British public likes a pellet of reason in its jam of eloquence a pill of reason in its pudding of sentiment," he said, sharpening the phrase to a satisfactory degree of literary precision. His eyes rested, with something of the vanity of an author, upon the yellow leaflet which Mary held in her hand. She rose, took her seat at the head of the table, poured out tea for her colleagues, and gave her opinion upon the leaflet. So she had poured out tea, so she had criticized Mr. Clacton s leaflets a hundred times already; but now it seemed to her that she was doing it in a different spirit; she had enlisted in the army, and was a volunteer no longer. She had renounced something and was now how could she express it? not quite "in the running" for life. She had always known that Mr. Clacton and Mrs. Seal were not in the running, and across the gulf that separated them she had seen them in the guise of shadow people, flitting in and out of the ranks of the living eccentrics, undeveloped human beings, from whose substance some essential part had been cut away. All this had never struck her so clearly as it did this afternoon, when she felt that her lot was cast with them for ever. One view of the world plunged in darkness, so a more volatile temperament might have argued after a season of despair, let the world turn again and show another, more splendid, perhaps. No, Mary thought, with unflinching loyalty to what appeared to her to be the true view, having lost what is best, I do not mean to pretend that any other view does instead. Whatever happens, I mean to have no presences in my life. Her very words had a sort of distinctness which is sometimes produced by sharp, bodily pain. To Mrs. Seal s secret jubilation the rule which forbade discussion of shop at tea-time was overlooked. Mary and Mr. Clacton argued with a cogency and a ferocity which made the little woman feel that something very important
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questions this afternoon, Sally?" Mary asked, not very steadily. "Must we all get married?" Mrs. Seal emitted a most peculiar chuckle. She seemed for one moment to acknowledge the terrible side of life which is concerned with the emotions, the private lives, of the sexes, and then to sheer off from it with all possible speed into the shades of her own shivering virginity. She was made so uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, that she plunged her head into the cupboard, and endeavored to abstract some very obscure piece of china. "We have our work," she said, withdrawing her head, displaying cheeks more than usually crimson, and placing a jam-pot emphatically upon the table. But, for the moment, she was unable to launch herself upon one of those enthusiastic, but inconsequent, tirades upon liberty, democracy, the rights of the people, and the iniquities of the Government, in which she delighted. Some memory from her own past or from the past of her sex rose to her mind and kept her abashed. She glanced furtively at Mary, who still sat by the window with her arm upon the sill. She noticed how young she was and full of the promise of womanhood. The sight made her so uneasy that she fidgeted the cups upon their saucers. "Yes enough work to last a lifetime,"<|quote|>said Mary, as if concluding some passage of thought. Mrs. Seal brightened at once. She lamented her lack of scientific training, and her deficiency in the processes of logic, but she set her mind to work at once to make the prospects of the cause appear as alluring and important as she could. She delivered herself of an harangue in which she asked a great many rhetorical questions and answered them with a little bang of one fist upon another.</|quote|>"To last a lifetime? My dear child, it will last all our lifetimes. As one falls another steps into the breach. My father, in his generation, a pioneer I, coming after him, do my little best. What, alas! can one do more? And now it s you young women we look to you the future looks to you. Ah, my dear, if I d a thousand lives, I d give them all to our cause. The cause of women, d you say? I say the cause of humanity. And there are some" she glanced fiercely at the window "who don t see it! There are some who are satisfied to go on, year after year, refusing to admit the truth. And we who have the vision the kettle boiling over? No, no, let me see to it we who know the truth," she continued, gesticulating with the kettle and the teapot. Owing to these encumbrances, perhaps, she lost the thread of her discourse, and concluded, rather wistfully, "It s all so _simple_." She referred to a matter that was a perpetual source of bewilderment to her the extraordinary incapacity of the human race, in a world where the good is so unmistakably divided from the bad, of distinguishing one from the other, and embodying what ought to be done in a few large, simple Acts of Parliament, which would, in a very short time, completely change the lot of humanity. "One would have thought," she said, "that men of University training, like Mr. Asquith one would have thought that an appeal to reason would not be unheard by them. But reason," she reflected, "what is reason without
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Night And Day
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"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."
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Jane
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was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows
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Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But
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can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed,
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his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend
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the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to
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fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. CHAPTER XVII. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained. "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. "While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough.--I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every body." Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she
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notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. CHAPTER XVII. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained. "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. "While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough.--I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every body." Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance. "I am by no means of opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,--a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her." Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Wickham for those very dances:--and to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help for it however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was per force delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more.--It now first struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself, by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth however did not chuse to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. If there had not
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but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. CHAPTER XVII. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained. "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? oh! no." "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."<|quote|>"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to think."</|quote|>"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think." But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public. The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia, depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it. "While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough.--I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every body." Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance. "I am by no means of opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,--a preference which I trust
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Pride And Prejudice
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These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.
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No speaker
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married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked,
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the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he
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summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses,
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the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an
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to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure. "I was thinking of that too--I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said. To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "What do you do while May is away?" "I stick to my work," he answered, faintly annoyed by the question. In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes,
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fact was her having lived in an atmosphere so thick with drama that her own tendency to provoke it had apparently passed unperceived. It was precisely the odd absence of surprise in her that gave him the sense of her having been plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelled against. Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski's accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who figured in his wife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was frightened, she was desperate--what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence. To have to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure. "I was thinking of that too--I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said. To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "What do you do while May is away?" "I stick to my work," he answered, faintly annoyed by the question. In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him. As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him. It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May's accompanying her father. The reputation of the Mingotts' family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible.
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face in her hands. On the threshold he paused to look at her; then he stole back, lifted one of the ends of velvet ribbon, kissed it, and left the room without her hearing him or changing her attitude. And on this silent parting the curtain fell. It was always for the sake of that particular scene that Newland Archer went to see "The Shaughraun." He thought the adieux of Montague and Ada Dyas as fine as anything he had ever seen Croisette and Bressant do in Paris, or Madge Robertson and Kendal in London; in its reticence, its dumb sorrow, it moved him more than the most famous histrionic outpourings. On the evening in question the little scene acquired an added poignancy by reminding him--he could not have said why--of his leave-taking from Madame Olenska after their confidential talk a week or ten days earlier. It would have been as difficult to discover any resemblance between the two situations as between the appearance of the persons concerned. Newland Archer could not pretend to anything approaching the young English actor's romantic good looks, and Miss Dyas was a tall red-haired woman of monumental build whose pale and pleasantly ugly face was utterly unlike Ellen Olenska's vivid countenance. Nor were Archer and Madame Olenska two lovers parting in heart-broken silence; they were client and lawyer separating after a talk which had given the lawyer the worst possible impression of the client's case. Wherein, then, lay the resemblance that made the young man's heart beat with a kind of retrospective excitement? It seemed to be in Madame Olenska's mysterious faculty of suggesting tragic and moving possibilities outside the daily run of experience. She had hardly ever said a word to him to produce this impression, but it was a part of her, either a projection of her mysterious and outlandish background or of something inherently dramatic, passionate and unusual in herself. Archer had always been inclined to think that chance and circumstance played a small part in shaping people's lots compared with their innate tendency to have things happen to them. This tendency he had felt from the first in Madame Olenska. The quiet, almost passive young woman struck him as exactly the kind of person to whom things were bound to happen, no matter how much she shrank from them and went out of her way to avoid them. The exciting fact was her having lived in an atmosphere so thick with drama that her own tendency to provoke it had apparently passed unperceived. It was precisely the odd absence of surprise in her that gave him the sense of her having been plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelled against. Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski's accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who figured in his wife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was frightened, she was desperate--what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence. To have to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure. "I was thinking of that too--I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said. To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "What do you do while May is away?" "I stick to my work," he answered, faintly annoyed by the question. In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him. As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him. It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May's accompanying her father. The reputation of the Mingotts' family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible. Originally, it had been intended that May's engagement should not be announced till her return from Florida, and the fact that it had been made known sooner could not be expected to alter Mr. Welland's plans. Archer would have liked to join the travellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating with his betrothed; but he too was bound by custom and conventions. Little arduous as his professional duties were, he would have been convicted of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan if he had suggested asking for a holiday in mid-winter; and he accepted May's departure with the resignation which he perceived would have to be one of the principal constituents of married life. He was conscious that Madame Olenska was looking at him under lowered lids. "I have done what you wished--what you advised," she said abruptly. "Ah--I'm glad," he returned, embarrassed by her broaching the subject at such a moment. "I understand--that you were right," she went on a little breathlessly; "but sometimes life is difficult ... perplexing..." "I know." "And I wanted to tell you that I DO feel you were right; and that I'm grateful to you," she ended, lifting her opera-glass quickly to her eyes as the door of the box opened and Beaufort's resonant voice broke in on them. Archer stood up, and left the box and the theatre. Only the day before he had received a letter from May Welland in which, with characteristic candour, she had asked him to "be kind to Ellen" in their absence. "She likes you and admires you so much--and you know, though she doesn't show it, she's still very lonely and unhappy. I don't think Granny understands her, or uncle Lovell Mingott either; they really think she's much worldlier and fonder of society than she is. And I can quite see that New York must seem dull to her, though the family won't admit it. I think she's been used to lots of things we haven't got; wonderful music, and picture shows, and celebrities--artists and authors and all the clever people you admire. Granny can't understand her wanting anything but lots of dinners and clothes--but I can see that you're almost the only person in New York who can talk to her about what she really cares for." His wise May--how he had loved her for that letter! But he had not meant to
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plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelled against. Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski's accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who figured in his wife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was frightened, she was desperate--what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence. To have to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!"<|quote|>These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, and after a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who always preferred to look beautiful and not have to talk, Archer seated himself behind Madame Olenska. There was no one else in the box but Mr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs. Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception (where some people reported that there had been dancing). Under cover of this circumstantial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listened with her perfect smile, and her head at just the right angle to be seen in profile from the stalls, Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a low voice.</|quote|>"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward the stage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow roses tomorrow morning?" Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap of surprise. He had called only twice on Madame Olenska, and each time he had sent her a box of yellow roses, and each time without a card. She had never before made any allusion to the flowers, and he supposed she had never thought of him as the sender. Now her sudden recognition of the gift, and her associating it with the tender leave-taking on the stage, filled him with an agitated pleasure. "I was thinking of that too--I was going to leave the theatre in order to take the picture away with me," he said. To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly and duskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly gloved hands, and said, after a pause: "What do you do while May is away?" "I stick to my work," he answered, faintly annoyed by the question. In obedience to a long-established habit, the Wellands had left the previous week for St. Augustine, where, out of regard for the supposed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him. As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him. It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May's accompanying her father. The reputation of the Mingotts' family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible. Originally, it had been intended that May's engagement should not be announced till her return from Florida, and the fact that it had been made known sooner could not be expected to alter Mr. Welland's plans. Archer would have liked to join the travellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating with his betrothed; but he too was bound by custom and conventions. Little arduous as his professional duties were, he would have been convicted of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan
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The Age Of Innocence
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"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."
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Lady Narborough
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on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that
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that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there,
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creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept
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no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and
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dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.
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the mills were so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough s fault. He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never sees anything." Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up. You don t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief." "How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like
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seven when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again." "You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. CHAPTER XV. That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady Narborough s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his manner as he bent over his hostess s hand was as easy and graceful as ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one s ease as when one has to play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life. It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and French _esprit_ when she could get it. Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, my dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say, "and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough s fault. He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never sees anything." Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up. You don t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_ she was then." "She is still _d collet e_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief." "How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian. "It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" "Certainly, Lady Narborough." "I don t believe a word of it." "Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." "Is it true, Mr. Gray?" "She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had had any hearts at all." "Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_." "_Trop d audace_, I tell her," said Dorian. "Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like? I don t know him." "The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." "But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms." "Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one s back that are absolutely and entirely true." "Isn t he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. "I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion." "You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." "Narborough wasn t perfect," cried the old lady. "If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true." "Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all the bachelors
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were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough s fault. He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who never sees anything." Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up. You don t know what an existence they lead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and amuse me." Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas. He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:<|quote|>"How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."</|quote|>It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. "Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.
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No speaker
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I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny,
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"Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was
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there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her
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and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood
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to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush
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bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as
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in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which had suffused her face in the Mission Garden at St. Augustine. He became aware of the same obscure effort in her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of her vision. "She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's trying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." The thought moved him, and for a moment he was on the point of breaking the silence between them, and throwing himself on her mercy. "You understand, don't you," she went on, "why the family have sometimes been annoyed? We all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. And now this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, of going there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..." "Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. The open door had closed between them again. "It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. As he walked past her she moved forward impulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of the same swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to Jersey City. She flung her arms about his neck and pressed her cheek to his. "You haven't kissed me today," she said in a whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. XXXII. "At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openly tolerated." The scene was the van der Luydens' black walnut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and the time the evening after Newland Archer's visit to the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had come to town for a few days from Skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at the announcement of Beaufort's failure. It had been represented to them that the disarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made their presence in town more necessary than ever. It was one of the occasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the Opera, and even to open their own doors. "It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let people like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can step into Regina's shoes. It is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. It was owing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in New York the winter Mrs. Struthers first appeared that the married men slipped away to her house while their wives were in the nursery. You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in the breach as you always have." Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town, unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an evening reception. On this particular evening they had invited Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newland and his wife to go with them to the Opera, where Faust was being sung for the first time that winter. Nothing was done without ceremony under the van der Luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun at seven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without haste before the gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Archer had not seen his wife since the
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had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that he had never before beheld love visible. "Oh, I shall be late--good-bye. No, don't come any farther than this," she cried, walking hurriedly away down the long room, as if the reflected radiance in his eyes had frightened her. When she reached the door she turned for a moment to wave a quick farewell. Archer walked home alone. Darkness was falling when he let himself into his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if he viewed them from the other side of the grave. The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up the stairs to light the gas on the upper landing. "Is Mrs. Archer in?" "No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriage after luncheon, and hasn't come back." With a sense of relief he entered the library and flung himself down in his armchair. The parlour-maid followed, bringing the student lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. When she left he continued to sit motionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixed on the red grate. He sat there without conscious thoughts, without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed to suspend life rather than quicken it. "This was what had to be, then ... this was what had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch of doom. What he had dreamed of had been so different that there was a mortal chill in his rapture. The door opened and May came in. "I'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried, were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses. He looked up astonished. "Is it late?" "After seven. I believe you've been asleep!"<|quote|>She laughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossed her velvet hat on the sofa. She looked paler than usual, but sparkling with an unwonted animation.</|quote|>"I went to see Granny, and just as I was going away Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayed and had a long talk with her. It was ages since we'd had a real talk...." She had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingers through her rumpled hair. He fancied she expected him to speak. "A really good talk," she went on, smiling with what seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness. "She was so dear--just like the old Ellen. I'm afraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I've sometimes thought--" Archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "Yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as she paused. "Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She's so different--at least on the surface. She takes up such odd people--she seems to like to make herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she's led in that fast European society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want to judge her unfairly." She paused again, a little breathless with the unwonted length of her speech, and sat with her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded of the glow which
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The Age Of Innocence
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"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"
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Anne Elliot
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his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a
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be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had
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sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with
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own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it
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dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs
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my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune." "No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?" Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed-- "Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But," continued Anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now.
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must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met." "I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done." "I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr Elliot's relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me." Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said-- "I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune." "No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?" Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed-- "Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But," continued Anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My
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you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne,<|quote|>"I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--"</|quote|>She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you
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Persuasion
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"Changed?"
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Newland Archer
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have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a
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dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed
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the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she
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was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her." Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder
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sunset was splintering up into a thousand fires, and the radiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beat out through the channel between the Lime Rock and the shore. Archer, as he watched, remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, and Montague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lips without her knowing that he was in the room. "She doesn't know--she hasn't guessed. Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, I wonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said to himself: "If she doesn't turn before that sail crosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back." The boat was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her." Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder if she wouldn't be happier with her husband." He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" he exclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frown on him he added: "I don't think I ever heard you say a cruel thing before." "Cruel?" "Well--watching the contortions of the damned is supposed to be a favourite sport of the angels; but I believe even they don't think people happier in hell." "It's a pity she ever married abroad then," said May, in the placid tone with which her mother met Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felt himself gently relegated to the category of
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summer-house; and in the pagoda a lady stood, leaning against the rail, her back to the shore. Archer stopped at the sight as if he had waked from sleep. That vision of the past was a dream, and the reality was what awaited him in the house on the bank overhead: was Mrs. Welland's pony-carriage circling around and around the oval at the door, was May sitting under the shameless Olympians and glowing with secret hopes, was the Welland villa at the far end of Bellevue Avenue, and Mr. Welland, already dressed for dinner, and pacing the drawing-room floor, watch in hand, with dyspeptic impatience--for it was one of the houses in which one always knew exactly what is happening at a given hour. "What am I? A son-in-law--" Archer thought. The figure at the end of the pier had not moved. For a long moment the young man stood half way down the bank, gazing at the bay furrowed with the coming and going of sailboats, yacht-launches, fishing-craft and the trailing black coal-barges hauled by noisy tugs. The lady in the summer-house seemed to be held by the same sight. Beyond the grey bastions of Fort Adams a long-drawn sunset was splintering up into a thousand fires, and the radiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beat out through the channel between the Lime Rock and the shore. Archer, as he watched, remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, and Montague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lips without her knowing that he was in the room. "She doesn't know--she hasn't guessed. Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, I wonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said to himself: "If she doesn't turn before that sail crosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back." The boat was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her." Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder if she wouldn't be happier with her husband." He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" he exclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frown on him he added: "I don't think I ever heard you say a cruel thing before." "Cruel?" "Well--watching the contortions of the damned is supposed to be a favourite sport of the angels; but I believe even they don't think people happier in hell." "It's a pity she ever married abroad then," said May, in the placid tone with which her mother met Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felt himself gently relegated to the category of unreasonable husbands. They drove down Bellevue Avenue and turned in between the chamfered wooden gate-posts surmounted by cast-iron lamps which marked the approach to the Welland villa. Lights were already shining through its windows, and Archer, as the carriage stopped, caught a glimpse of his father-in-law, exactly as he had pictured him, pacing the drawing-room, watch in hand and wearing the pained expression that he had long since found to be much more efficacious than anger. The young man, as he followed his wife into the hall, was conscious of a curious reversal of mood. There was something about the luxury of the Welland house and the density of the Welland atmosphere, so charged with minute observances and exactions, that always stole into his system like a narcotic. The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding one hour to the next, and each member of the household to all the others, made any less systematised and affluent existence seem unreal and precarious. But now it was the Welland house, and the life he was expected to
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going down the path to the shore; and Mrs. Mingott turned to Archer. "Run down and fetch her, like a good grandson; this pretty lady will describe the party to me," she said; and Archer stood up as if in a dream. He had heard the Countess Olenska's name pronounced often enough during the year and a half since they had last met, and was even familiar with the main incidents of her life in the interval. He knew that she had spent the previous summer at Newport, where she appeared to have gone a great deal into society, but that in the autumn she had suddenly sub-let the "perfect house" which Beaufort had been at such pains to find for her, and decided to establish herself in Washington. There, during the winter, he had heard of her (as one always heard of pretty women in Washington) as shining in the "brilliant diplomatic society" that was supposed to make up for the social short-comings of the Administration. He had listened to these accounts, and to various contradictory reports on her appearance, her conversation, her point of view and her choice of friends, with the detachment with which one listens to reminiscences of some one long since dead; not till Medora suddenly spoke her name at the archery match had Ellen Olenska become a living presence to him again. The Marchioness's foolish lisp had called up a vision of the little fire-lit drawing-room and the sound of the carriage-wheels returning down the deserted street. He thought of a story he had read, of some peasant children in Tuscany lighting a bunch of straw in a wayside cavern, and revealing old silent images in their painted tomb ... The way to the shore descended from the bank on which the house was perched to a walk above the water planted with weeping willows. Through their veil Archer caught the glint of the Lime Rock, with its white-washed turret and the tiny house in which the heroic light-house keeper, Ida Lewis, was living her last venerable years. Beyond it lay the flat reaches and ugly government chimneys of Goat Island, the bay spreading northward in a shimmer of gold to Prudence Island with its low growth of oaks, and the shores of Conanicut faint in the sunset haze. From the willow walk projected a slight wooden pier ending in a sort of pagoda-like summer-house; and in the pagoda a lady stood, leaning against the rail, her back to the shore. Archer stopped at the sight as if he had waked from sleep. That vision of the past was a dream, and the reality was what awaited him in the house on the bank overhead: was Mrs. Welland's pony-carriage circling around and around the oval at the door, was May sitting under the shameless Olympians and glowing with secret hopes, was the Welland villa at the far end of Bellevue Avenue, and Mr. Welland, already dressed for dinner, and pacing the drawing-room floor, watch in hand, with dyspeptic impatience--for it was one of the houses in which one always knew exactly what is happening at a given hour. "What am I? A son-in-law--" Archer thought. The figure at the end of the pier had not moved. For a long moment the young man stood half way down the bank, gazing at the bay furrowed with the coming and going of sailboats, yacht-launches, fishing-craft and the trailing black coal-barges hauled by noisy tugs. The lady in the summer-house seemed to be held by the same sight. Beyond the grey bastions of Fort Adams a long-drawn sunset was splintering up into a thousand fires, and the radiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beat out through the channel between the Lime Rock and the shore. Archer, as he watched, remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, and Montague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lips without her knowing that he was in the room. "She doesn't know--she hasn't guessed. Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, I wonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said to himself: "If she doesn't turn before that sail crosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back." The boat was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her." Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder if she wouldn't be happier with her husband." He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" he exclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frown on him he added: "I don't think I ever heard you say a cruel thing before." "Cruel?" "Well--watching the contortions of the damned is supposed to be a favourite sport of the angels; but I believe even they don't think people happier in hell." "It's a pity she ever married abroad then," said May, in the placid tone with which her mother met Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felt himself gently relegated to the category of unreasonable husbands. They drove down Bellevue Avenue and turned in between the chamfered wooden gate-posts surmounted by cast-iron lamps which marked the approach to the Welland villa. Lights were already shining through its windows, and Archer, as the carriage stopped, caught a glimpse of his father-in-law, exactly as he had pictured him, pacing the drawing-room, watch in hand and wearing the pained expression that he had long since found to be much more efficacious than anger. The young man, as he followed his wife into the hall, was conscious of a curious reversal of mood. There was something about the luxury of the Welland house and the density of the Welland atmosphere, so charged with minute observances and exactions, that always stole into his system like a narcotic. The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding one hour to the next, and each member of the household to all the others, made any less systematised and affluent existence seem unreal and precarious. But now it was the Welland house, and the life he was expected to lead in it, that had become unreal and irrelevant, and the brief scene on the shore, when he had stood irresolute, halfway down the bank, was as close to him as the blood in his veins. All night he lay awake in the big chintz bedroom at May's side, watching the moonlight slant along the carpet, and thinking of Ellen Olenska driving home across the gleaming beaches behind Beaufort's trotters. XXII. "A party for the Blenkers--the Blenkers?" Mr. Welland laid down his knife and fork and looked anxiously and incredulously across the luncheon-table at his wife, who, adjusting her gold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of high comedy: "Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Welland's company at the meeting of the Wednesday Afternoon Club on August 25th at 3 o'clock punctually. To meet Mrs. and the Misses Blenker." "Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P." "Good gracious--" Mr. Welland gasped, as if a second reading had been necessary to bring the monstrous absurdity of the thing home to him. "Poor Amy Sillerton--you never can tell what her husband will do next," Mrs. Welland sighed. "I suppose he's just discovered the Blenkers." Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in the side of Newport society; and a thorn that could not be plucked out, for it grew on a venerable and venerated family tree. He was, as people said, a man who had had "every advantage." His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, his mother a Pennilow of Boston; on each side there was wealth and position, and mutual suitability. Nothing--as Mrs. Welland had often remarked--nothing on earth obliged Emerson Sillerton to be an archaeologist, or indeed a Professor of any sort, or to live in Newport in winter, or do any of the other revolutionary things that he did. But at least, if he was going to break with tradition and flout society in the face, he need not have married poor Amy Dagonet, who had a right to expect "something different," and money enough to keep her own carriage. No one in the Mingott set could understand why Amy Sillerton had submitted so tamely to the eccentricities of a husband who filled the house with long-haired men and short-haired women, and, when he travelled, took her to explore tombs in Yucatan instead of going to Paris or Italy. But there they were, set
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glint of the Lime Rock, with its white-washed turret and the tiny house in which the heroic light-house keeper, Ida Lewis, was living her last venerable years. Beyond it lay the flat reaches and ugly government chimneys of Goat Island, the bay spreading northward in a shimmer of gold to Prudence Island with its low growth of oaks, and the shores of Conanicut faint in the sunset haze. From the willow walk projected a slight wooden pier ending in a sort of pagoda-like summer-house; and in the pagoda a lady stood, leaning against the rail, her back to the shore. Archer stopped at the sight as if he had waked from sleep. That vision of the past was a dream, and the reality was what awaited him in the house on the bank overhead: was Mrs. Welland's pony-carriage circling around and around the oval at the door, was May sitting under the shameless Olympians and glowing with secret hopes, was the Welland villa at the far end of Bellevue Avenue, and Mr. Welland, already dressed for dinner, and pacing the drawing-room floor, watch in hand, with dyspeptic impatience--for it was one of the houses in which one always knew exactly what is happening at a given hour. "What am I? A son-in-law--" Archer thought. The figure at the end of the pier had not moved. For a long moment the young man stood half way down the bank, gazing at the bay furrowed with the coming and going of sailboats, yacht-launches, fishing-craft and the trailing black coal-barges hauled by noisy tugs. The lady in the summer-house seemed to be held by the same sight. Beyond the grey bastions of Fort Adams a long-drawn sunset was splintering up into a thousand fires, and the radiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beat out through the channel between the Lime Rock and the shore. Archer, as he watched, remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, and Montague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lips without her knowing that he was in the room. "She doesn't know--she hasn't guessed. Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, I wonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said to himself: "If she doesn't turn before that sail crosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back." The boat was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer-house did not move. He turned and walked up the hill. "I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."<|quote|>"Changed?"</|quote|>echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears. "So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her." Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder if she wouldn't be happier with her husband." He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" he exclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frown on him he added: "I don't think I ever heard you say a cruel thing before." "Cruel?" "Well--watching the contortions of the damned is supposed to be a favourite sport of the angels; but I believe even they don't think people happier in hell." "It's a pity she ever married abroad then," said May, in the placid tone with which her mother met Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felt himself gently relegated to the category of unreasonable husbands. They drove down Bellevue Avenue and turned in between the chamfered wooden gate-posts surmounted by cast-iron lamps which marked the approach to the Welland villa. Lights were already shining through its windows, and Archer, as the carriage stopped, caught a glimpse of his father-in-law, exactly as he had pictured him, pacing the drawing-room, watch in hand and wearing the pained expression that he had long since found to be much more efficacious than anger. The young man, as he followed his wife into the hall, was conscious of a curious reversal of mood. There was something about the luxury of the Welland house and the density of the Welland atmosphere, so charged with minute observances and exactions, that always stole into his system like a narcotic. The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding
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The Age Of Innocence
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“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”
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Mrs. Bossier
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her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a
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or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said
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the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He
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gran, I admit. You can apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way. If—” “I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist. I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farm produce and a
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stage as well as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.” “Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career! That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely at Everard. “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way. If—” “I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist. I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farm produce and a hard struggle for existence. Hitherto I had only read of such or seen them in pictures, but here was a real live one, and I seized my opportunity with vim. At my questioning and evident interest in his talk he told me of all the latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he was acquainted, and described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most
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grand-daughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An actress—a vile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with which to do good in showing off to a crowd of vile bad men! I would rather see her struck dead at my feet this instant! I would rather see her shear off her hair and enter a convent this very hour. Child, promise you will never be a bold bad actress.” “I will never be a _bold bad_ actress, grannie,” I said, putting great stress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly. “Yes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad in you. You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety sometimes, but I don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an actress.” Everard attempted to defend his case. “Look here, gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage being a low profession. It might have been once, but it is quite the reverse nowadays. There are, of course, low people on the stage, as there are in all walks of life. I grant you that; but if people are good they can be good on the stage as well as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.” “Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career! That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely at Everard. “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way. If—” “I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist. I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farm produce and a hard struggle for existence. Hitherto I had only read of such or seen them in pictures, but here was a real live one, and I seized my opportunity with vim. At my questioning and evident interest in his talk he told me of all the latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he was acquainted, and described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in your life.” Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist. “The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room. “How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding
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with pepper. I finished my toilet, and in a very what’s-the-good-o’-anything mood took a last glance in the glass to say, “You’re ugly, you’re ugly and useless; so don’t forget that and make a fool of yourself again.” I was in the habit of doing this; it had long ago taken the place of a morning prayer. I said this, that by familiarity it might lose a little of its sting when I heard it from other lips, but somehow it failed in efficacy. I was late for breakfast that morning. All the others were half through the meal when I sat down. Grannie had not come home till after twelve, but was looking as brisk as usual. “Come, Sybylla, I suppose this comes of sitting up too late, as I was not here to hunt you to bed. You are always very lively at night, but it’s a different tune in the morning,” she said, when giving me the usual morning hug. “When I was a nipper of your age, if I didn’t turn out like greased lightning every morning, I was assisted by a little strap oil,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay. “Sybylla should be excused this morning,” interposed Mr Grey. “She entertained us for hours last night. Little wonder if she feels languid this morning.” “Entertained you I What did she do?” queried grannie. “Many things. Do you know, gran, that you are robbing the world of an artist by keeping Sybylla hidden away in the bush? I must persuade you to let me take her to Sydney and have her put under the best masters in Sydney.” “Under masters for what?” “Elocution and singing.” “I couldn’t afford it.” “But I’d bear the expense myself. It would only be returning a trifle of all you have done for me.” “What nonsense! What would you have her do when she was taught?” “Go on the stage, of course. With her talent and hair she would cause quite a sensation.” Now grannie’s notions are the stage were very tightly laced. All actors and actresses, from the lowest circus man up to the most glorious cantatrice, were people defiled in the sight of God, and utterly outside the pale of all respectability, when measured with her code of morals. She turned energetically in her chair, and her keen eyes flashed with scorn and anger as she spoke. “Go on the stage! A grand-daughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An actress—a vile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with which to do good in showing off to a crowd of vile bad men! I would rather see her struck dead at my feet this instant! I would rather see her shear off her hair and enter a convent this very hour. Child, promise you will never be a bold bad actress.” “I will never be a _bold bad_ actress, grannie,” I said, putting great stress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly. “Yes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad in you. You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety sometimes, but I don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an actress.” Everard attempted to defend his case. “Look here, gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage being a low profession. It might have been once, but it is quite the reverse nowadays. There are, of course, low people on the stage, as there are in all walks of life. I grant you that; but if people are good they can be good on the stage as well as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.” “Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career! That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely at Everard. “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way. If—” “I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist. I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farm produce and a hard struggle for existence. Hitherto I had only read of such or seen them in pictures, but here was a real live one, and I seized my opportunity with vim. At my questioning and evident interest in his talk he told me of all the latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he was acquainted, and described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in your life.” Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist. “The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room. “How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontent and ill-humour until soothed by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft spring sunshine which streamed in through my open window. Some of the flower-beds in the garden were completely carpeted with pansy blossoms, all colours, and violets-blue and white, single and double. The scent of mignonette, jonquils, and narcissi filled the air. I revelled in rich perfumes, and these tempted me forth. My ruffled feelings gave way before the delights of the old garden. I collected a number of vases, and, filling them with water, set them on a table in the veranda near one of the drawing-room windows. I gathered lapfuls of the lovely blossoms, and commenced arranging them in the vases. Part of the old Caddagat house was built of slabs, and one of the wooden walls ran along the veranda side of the drawing-room, so the songs aunt Helen and Everard Grey were trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to my congenial task. Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation. “My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help
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Little wonder if she feels languid this morning.” “Entertained you I What did she do?” queried grannie. “Many things. Do you know, gran, that you are robbing the world of an artist by keeping Sybylla hidden away in the bush? I must persuade you to let me take her to Sydney and have her put under the best masters in Sydney.” “Under masters for what?” “Elocution and singing.” “I couldn’t afford it.” “But I’d bear the expense myself. It would only be returning a trifle of all you have done for me.” “What nonsense! What would you have her do when she was taught?” “Go on the stage, of course. With her talent and hair she would cause quite a sensation.” Now grannie’s notions are the stage were very tightly laced. All actors and actresses, from the lowest circus man up to the most glorious cantatrice, were people defiled in the sight of God, and utterly outside the pale of all respectability, when measured with her code of morals. She turned energetically in her chair, and her keen eyes flashed with scorn and anger as she spoke. “Go on the stage! A grand-daughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An actress—a vile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with which to do good in showing off to a crowd of vile bad men! I would rather see her struck dead at my feet this instant! I would rather see her shear off her hair and enter a convent this very hour. Child, promise you will never be a bold bad actress.” “I will never be a _bold bad_ actress, grannie,” I said, putting great stress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly. “Yes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad in you. You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety sometimes, but I don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an actress.” Everard attempted to defend his case. “Look here, gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage being a low profession. It might have been once, but it is quite the reverse nowadays. There are, of course, low people on the stage, as there are in all walks of life. I grant you that; but if people are good they can be good on the stage as well as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.” “Career!” exclaimed his foster-mother, catching at the word. “Career! That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely at Everard. “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, gran, I admit. You can apply it to many of our girls, I am sorry to confess, but Sybylla could not be brought under that classification. You must look at her in a different way. If—” “I look at her as the child of respectable people, and will not have the stage mentioned in connection with her.” Here Grannie thumped her fist down on the table and there was silence, complete, profound. Few dared argue with Mrs Bossier. Dear old lady, she was never angry long, and in a minute or two she proceeded with her breakfast, saying quite pleasantly:<|quote|>“Never mention such a subject to me again; but I’ll tell you what you can do. Next autumn, some time in March or April, when the fruit-preserving and jam-making are done with, Helen can take the child to Sydney for a month or so, and you can show them round. It will be a great treat for Sybylla as she has never been in Sydney.”</|quote|>“That’s right, let’s strike a bargain on that, gran,” said Everard. “Yes; it’s a bargain, if I hear no more about the stage. God intends His creatures for a better life than that.” After breakfast I was left to entertain Everard for some while. We had a fine time. He was a perfect gentleman and a clever conversationalist. I was always desirous of enjoying the company of society people who were well bred and lived according to etiquette, and possessed of leisure and culture sufficient to fill their minds with something more than the price of farm produce and a hard struggle for existence. Hitherto I had only read of such or seen them in pictures, but here was a real live one, and I seized my opportunity with vim. At my questioning and evident interest in his talk he told me of all the latest plays, actors, and actresses with whom he was acquainted, and described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in your life.” Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist. “The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room. “How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontent and ill-humour until soothed by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft
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My Brilliant Career
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"Yes, do!"
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A High Piping Voice
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in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really
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into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
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Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of
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must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit." At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words
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me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. "What a strange place!" she said, looking round. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work." "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit." At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the colour back into the other s bloodless cheeks. "Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus, you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face
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only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him. "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled monotone. Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. "What a strange place!" she said, looking round. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work." "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit." At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the colour back into the other s bloodless cheeks. "Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus, you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that." Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto s teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper. The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was
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have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy." "You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend won t keep us out in the cold now, I am sure." "In you come, sir, in you come, you and your friends," he answered. "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in." Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand. "I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it." "Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes. "Yes; he has followed my father s custom. He was the favourite son, you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew s window up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from within, I think." "None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little window beside the door." "Ah, that is the housekeeper s room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is that?" He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds, the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman. "It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him. "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled monotone. Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. "What a strange place!" she said, looking round. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work." "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit." At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the colour back into the other s bloodless cheeks. "Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus, you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that." Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto s teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper. The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath. "There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?" I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face, the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance. The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins. "This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?" "The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto s chamber. It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odour. A set of steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above them there was an opening in
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ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. "What a strange place!" she said, looking round. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work." "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit." At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a terrified child. "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.<|quote|>"Yes, do!"</|quote|>pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions." We all followed him into the housekeeper s room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!" Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the colour back into the other s bloodless cheeks. "Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus, you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that." Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto s teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared
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The Sign Of The Four
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said Gatsby, cutting him off.
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No speaker
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…” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?”
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asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I
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clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the
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feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and
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… Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One
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It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but
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whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. “It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t—When I try to—” He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an over-wound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. “They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound. “If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together. VI About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say. “Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely. “Why—any statement to give out.” It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.” It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to say. James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour. I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son
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green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.” I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. “I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,”<|quote|>said Gatsby, cutting him off.</|quote|>“Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As
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The Great Gatsby
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"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."
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Dr. Watson
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"What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would
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seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She
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be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you
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black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now
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"The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks." "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on
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old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks." "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet." We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged
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tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted management here." He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand. "You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he ll let us hear of it." "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?" The youth pondered for a moment. "I d like a shillin ," said he. "Nothing you would like better?" "I d like two shillin better," the prodigy answered, after some thought. "Here you are, then! Catch! A fine child, Mrs. Smith!" "Lor bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a most too much for me to manage, specially when my man is away days at a time." "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith." "He s been away since yesterday mornin , sir, and, truth to tell, I am beginnin to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well." "I wanted to hire his steam launch." "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone. That s what puzzles me; for I know there ain t more coals in her than would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he d been away in the barge I d ha thought nothin ; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin there he might ha stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?" "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river." "He might, sir, but it weren t his way. Many a time I ve heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don t like that wooden-legged man, wi his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin about here for?" "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise. "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that s called more n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks." "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet." We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Homes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o clock last night," said the _Standard_, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr. Sholto s person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the
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t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks." "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" "No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?"<|quote|>"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_."</|quote|>"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet." We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."
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William Rodney
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much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her
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replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the
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address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style.
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book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude
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which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last
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holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he
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had to be set by the fire to keep hot. It was now a quarter of an hour beyond the specified time. He bethought him of a piece of news which had depressed him in the earlier part of the day. Owing to the illness of one of his fellow-clerks, it was likely that he would get no holiday until later in the year, which would mean the postponement of their marriage. But this possibility, after all, was not so disagreeable as the probability which forced itself upon him with every tick of the clock that Katharine had completely forgotten her engagement. Such things had happened less frequently since Christmas, but what if they were going to begin to happen again? What if their marriage should turn out, as she had said, a farce? He acquitted her of any wish to hurt him wantonly, but there was something in her character which made it impossible for her to help hurting people. Was she cold? Was she self-absorbed? He tried to fit her with each of these descriptions, but he had to own that she puzzled him. "There are so many things that she doesn t understand," he reflected, glancing at the letter to Cassandra which he had begun and laid aside. What prevented him from finishing the letter which he had so much enjoyed beginning? The reason was that Katharine might, at any moment, enter the room. The thought, implying his bondage to her, irritated him acutely. It occurred to him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening for a confession, he was disconcerted by what he saw. Katharine seemed equally oblivious of what was bad or of what was good in him. Her expression suggested concentration upon something entirely remote from her surroundings. The carelessness of her attitude seemed to him rather masculine than feminine. His impulse to break up the constraint was chilled, and once more the exasperating sense of his own impotency returned to him. He could not help contrasting Katharine with his vision of the engaging, whimsical Cassandra; Katharine undemonstrative, inconsiderate, silent, and yet so notable that he could never do without her good opinion. She veered round upon him a moment later, as if, when her train of thought was ended, she became aware of his presence. "Have you finished your letter?" she asked. He thought he heard faint amusement in her tone, but not a trace of jealousy. "No, I m not going to write any more to-night," he said. "I m not in the mood for it for some reason. I can t say what I want to say." "Cassandra won t know if it s well written or badly written," Katharine remarked. "I m not so sure about that. I should say she has a good deal of literary feeling." "Perhaps," said Katharine indifferently. "You ve been neglecting my education lately, by the way. I wish you d read something. Let me choose a book." So speaking, she went across to his bookshelves and began looking in a desultory way among his books. Anything, she thought, was better than bickering or
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him that he would leave the letter lying open for her to see, and he would take the opportunity of telling her that he had sent his play to Cassandra for her to criticize. Possibly, but not by any means certainly, this would annoy her and as he reached the doubtful comfort of this conclusion, there was a knock on the door and Katharine came in. They kissed each other coldly and she made no apology for being late. Nevertheless, her mere presence moved him strangely; but he was determined that this should not weaken his resolution to make some kind of stand against her; to get at the truth about her. He let her make her own disposition of clothes and busied himself with the plates. "I ve got a piece of news for you, Katharine," he said directly they sat down to table; "I shan t get my holiday in April. We shall have to put off our marriage." He rapped the words out with a certain degree of briskness. Katharine started a little, as if the announcement disturbed her thoughts. "That won t make any difference, will it? I mean the lease isn t signed," she replied. "But why? What has happened?" He told her, in an off-hand way, how one of his fellow-clerks had broken down, and might have to be away for months, six months even, in which case they would have to think over their position. He said it in a way which struck her, at last, as oddly casual. She looked at him. There was no outward sign that he was annoyed with her. Was she well dressed? She thought sufficiently so. Perhaps she was late? She looked for a clock. "It s a good thing we didn t take the house then," she repeated thoughtfully. "It ll mean, too, I m afraid, that I shan t be as free for a considerable time as I have been," he continued. She had time to reflect that she gained something by all this, though it was too soon to determine what. But the light which had been burning with such intensity as she came along was suddenly overclouded, as much by his manner as by his news. She had been prepared to meet opposition, which is simple to encounter compared with she did not know what it was that she had to encounter. The meal passed in quiet, well-controlled talk about indifferent things. Music was not a subject about which she knew anything, but she liked him to tell her things; and could, she mused, as he talked, fancy the evenings of married life spent thus, over the fire; spent thus, or with a book, perhaps, for then she would have time to read her books, and to grasp firmly with every muscle of her unused mind what she longed to know. The atmosphere was very free. Suddenly William broke off. She looked up apprehensively, brushing aside these thoughts with annoyance. "Where should I address a letter to Cassandra?" he asked her. It was obvious again that William had some meaning or other to-night, or was in some mood. "We ve struck up a friendship," he added. "She s at home, I think," Katharine replied. "They keep her too much at home," said William.<|quote|>"Why don t you ask her to stay with you, and let her hear a little good music? I ll just finish what I was saying, if you don t mind, because I m particularly anxious that she should hear to-morrow."</|quote|>Katharine sank back in her chair, and Rodney took the paper on his knees, and went on with his sentence. "Style, you know, is what we tend to neglect" "; but he was far more conscious of Katharine s eye upon him than of what he was saying about style. He knew that she was looking at him, but whether with irritation or indifference he could not guess. In truth, she had fallen sufficiently into his trap to feel uncomfortably roused and disturbed and unable to proceed on the lines laid down for herself. This indifferent, if not hostile, attitude on William s part made it impossible to break off without animosity, largely and completely. Infinitely preferable was Mary s state, she thought, where there was a simple thing to do and one did it. In fact, she could not help supposing that some littleness of nature had a part in all the refinements, reserves, and subtleties of feeling for which her friends and family were so distinguished. For example, although she liked Cassandra well enough, her fantastic method of life struck her as purely frivolous; now it was socialism, now it was silkworms, now it was music which last she supposed was the cause of William s sudden interest in her. Never before had William wasted the minutes of her presence in writing his letters. With a curious sense of light opening where all, hitherto, had been opaque, it dawned upon her that, after all, possibly, yes, probably, nay, certainly, the devotion which she had almost wearily taken for granted existed in a much slighter degree than she had suspected, or existed no longer. She looked at him attentively as if this discovery of hers must show traces in his face. Never had she seen so much to respect in his appearance, so much that attracted her by its sensitiveness and intelligence, although she saw these qualities as if they were those one responds to, dumbly, in the face of a stranger. The head bent over the paper, thoughtful as usual, had now a composure which seemed somehow to place it at a distance, like a face seen talking to some one else behind glass. He wrote on, without raising his eyes. She would have spoken, but could not bring herself to ask him for signs of affection which she had no right to claim. The conviction that he was thus strange to her filled her with despondency, and illustrated quite beyond doubt the infinite loneliness of human beings. She had never felt the truth of this so strongly before. She looked away into the fire; it seemed to her that even physically they were now scarcely within speaking distance; and spiritually there was certainly no human being with whom she could claim comradeship; no dream that satisfied her as she was used to be satisfied; nothing remained in whose reality she could believe, save those abstract ideas figures, laws, stars, facts, which she could hardly hold to for lack of knowledge and a kind of shame. When Rodney owned to himself the folly of this prolonged silence, and the meanness of such devices, and looked up ready to seek some excuse for a good laugh, or opening
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Night And Day
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"My first enjoyment,"
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Mr. John Knightley
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little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they
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this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will
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sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.
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think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was
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Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which
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of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it." "Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat
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and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips. They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--not better." "_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer." His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered. "Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning." Emma smiled and answered--" "My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard." "Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--" "He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!" "Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment." This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it." "Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!" "--Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a
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so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see." "Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it." "Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly, "I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls." At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party. "We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me," (turning with a soft air to Emma,) "I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings." "I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body." "Indeed!" (in a tone of wonder and pity,) "I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."<|quote|>"My first enjoyment,"</|quote|>replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again." CHAPTER XIV Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each. This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he
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Emma
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"Shall I marry him?"
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Louisa Bounderby
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can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation.
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marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory
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to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she
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almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear
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been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of
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perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too high for such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again; and the moment shot away into the plumbless depths of the past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities that are drowned there. Removing her eyes from him, she sat so long looking silently towards the town, that he said, at length: "Are you consulting the chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa?" "There seems to be nothing there but languid and monotonous smoke. Yet when the night comes, Fire bursts out, father!" she answered, turning quickly. "Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not see the application of the remark." To do him justice he did not, at all. She passed it away with a slight motion of her hand, and concentrating her attention upon him again, said, "Father, I have often thought that life is very short." This was so distinctly one of his subjects that he interposed. "It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the average duration of human life is proved to have increased of late years. The
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charge to make?" "I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear you state it to me, father." Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to go on. "What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your favourable consideration." Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. "Father," said Louisa, "do you think I love Mr. Bounderby?" Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unexpected question. "Well, my child," he returned, "I really cannot take upon myself to say." "Father," pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby?" "My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing." "Father," she still pursued, "does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?" "Really, my dear," said Mr. Gradgrind, "it is difficult to answer your question" "Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?" "Certainly, my dear. Because;" here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; "because the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps the expression itself I merely suggest this to you, my dear may be a little misplaced." "What would you advise me to use in its stead, father?" "Why, my dear Louisa," said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, "I would advise you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed really no existence but it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too high for such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again; and the moment shot away into the plumbless depths of the past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities that are drowned there. Removing her eyes from him, she sat so long looking silently towards the town, that he said, at length: "Are you consulting the chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa?" "There seems to be nothing there but languid and monotonous smoke. Yet when the night comes, Fire bursts out, father!" she answered, turning quickly. "Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not see the application of the remark." To do him justice he did not, at all. She passed it away with a slight motion of her hand, and concentrating her attention upon him again, said, "Father, I have often thought that life is very short." This was so distinctly one of his subjects that he interposed. "It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the average duration of human life is proved to have increased of late years. The calculations of various life assurance and annuity offices, among other figures which cannot go wrong, have established the fact." "I speak of my own life, father." "O indeed? Still," said Mr. Gradgrind, "I need not point out to you, Louisa, that it is governed by the laws which govern lives in the aggregate." "While it lasts, I would wish to do the little I can, and the little I am fit for. What does it matter?" Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to understand the last four words; replying, "How, matter? What matter, my dear?" "Mr. Bounderby," she went on in a steady, straight way, without regarding this, "asks me to marry him. The question I have to ask myself is, shall I marry him? That is so, father, is it not? You have told me so, father. Have you not?" "Certainly, my dear." "Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to take me thus, I am satisfied to accept his proposal. Tell him, father, as soon as you please, that this was my answer. Repeat it, word for word, if you can, because I should wish him to know what I said." "It is quite right, my dear," retorted her father approvingly, "to be exact. I will observe your very proper request. Have you any wish in reference to the period of your marriage, my child?" "None, father. What does it matter!" Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little nearer to her, and taken her hand. But, her repetition of these words seemed to strike with some little discord on his ear. He paused to look at her, and, still holding her hand, said: "Louisa, I have not considered it essential to ask you one question, because the possibility implied in it appeared to me to be too remote. But perhaps I ought to do so. You have never entertained in secret any other proposal?" "Father," she returned, almost scornfully, "what other proposal can have been made to _me_? Whom have I seen? Where have I been? What are my heart's experiences?" "My dear Louisa," returned Mr. Gradgrind, reassured and satisfied. "You correct me justly. I merely wished to discharge my duty." "What do _I_ know, father," said Louisa in her quiet manner, "of tastes and fancies; of aspirations and affections; of all that part of my nature in which such light things might have been
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bar to such a marriage? In considering this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but disappears." "What do you recommend, father," asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these gratifying results, "that I should substitute for the term I used just now? For the misplaced expression?" "Louisa," returned her father, "it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?"<|quote|>"Shall I marry him?"</|quote|>repeated Louisa, with great deliberation. "Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind, and habits of life, that belong to many young women." "No, father," she returned, "I do not." "I now leave you to judge for yourself," said Mr. Gradgrind. "I have stated the case, as such cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide." From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to
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Hard Times
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* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:
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No speaker
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He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp.
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"Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the
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absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him
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should do in every circumstance and what not. It's simply amazing, I tell you, that the ordinary soldier survives so long up here in the front-line. Simply amazing!" No one protests. Everyone knows that drill ceases only in the front-line and begins again a few miles behind, with all the absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him so that he stood there in a white sack unable to raise his arms. The singing stopped. The next moment Haie Westhus was there, and spreading out his arms he shoved us back in order to be first in. He put himself in position with evident satisfaction, raised his arm
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insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him." "They say, of course, there must be discipline," ventures Kropp meditatively. "True," growls Kat, "they always do. And it may be so; still it oughtn't to become an abuse. But you try to explain that to a blacksmith or a labourer or a workman, you try to make that clear to a simple tommy--and that's what most of them are here. All he understands is that he has been properly trained so that when he comes up to the front he thinks he knows exactly what he should do in every circumstance and what not. It's simply amazing, I tell you, that the ordinary soldier survives so long up here in the front-line. Simply amazing!" No one protests. Everyone knows that drill ceases only in the front-line and begins again a few miles behind, with all the absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him so that he stood there in a white sack unable to raise his arms. The singing stopped. The next moment Haie Westhus was there, and spreading out his arms he shoved us back in order to be first in. He put himself in position with evident satisfaction, raised his arm like a signal-mast and his hand like a coal-shovel and fetched such a blow on the white sack as would have felled an ox. Himmelstoss was thrown down, he rolled five yards and started to yell. But we were prepared for that and had brought a cushion. Haie squatted down, laid the cushion on his knees, felt where Himmelstoss's head was and pressed it down on the pillow. Immediately his voice was muffled. Haie let him get a gasp of air every so often, when he would give a mighty yell that was immediately hushed. Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and
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A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We are glad enough to be able to trail arms but we sing spiritlessly. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour's drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what's the use of all that? It's simply that the company commander's head has been turned by having so much power. And nobody blames him. On the contrary, he is praised for being strict. That, of course, is only a trifling instance, but it holds also in very different affairs. Now I ask you: Let a man be whatever you like in peace-time, what occupation is there in which he can behave like that without getting a crack on the nose? He can only do that in the army. It goes to the heads of them all, you see. And the more insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him." "They say, of course, there must be discipline," ventures Kropp meditatively. "True," growls Kat, "they always do. And it may be so; still it oughtn't to become an abuse. But you try to explain that to a blacksmith or a labourer or a workman, you try to make that clear to a simple tommy--and that's what most of them are here. All he understands is that he has been properly trained so that when he comes up to the front he thinks he knows exactly what he should do in every circumstance and what not. It's simply amazing, I tell you, that the ordinary soldier survives so long up here in the front-line. Simply amazing!" No one protests. Everyone knows that drill ceases only in the front-line and begins again a few miles behind, with all the absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him so that he stood there in a white sack unable to raise his arms. The singing stopped. The next moment Haie Westhus was there, and spreading out his arms he shoved us back in order to be first in. He put himself in position with evident satisfaction, raised his arm like a signal-mast and his hand like a coal-shovel and fetched such a blow on the white sack as would have felled an ox. Himmelstoss was thrown down, he rolled five yards and started to yell. But we were prepared for that and had brought a cushion. Haie squatted down, laid the cushion on his knees, felt where Himmelstoss's head was and pressed it down on the pillow. Immediately his voice was muffled. Haie let him get a gasp of air every so often, when he would give a mighty yell that was immediately hushed. Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and pulled down his trousers, holding the whip meantime in his teeth. Then he stood up and set to work. It was a wonderful picture: Himmelstoss on the ground; Haie bending over him with a fiendish grin and his mouth open with blood-lust, Himmelstoss's head on his knees; then the convulsed, striped drawers, the knock knees, executing at every blow most original movements in the lowered breeches, and towering over them like a woodcutter the indefatigable Tjaden. In the end we had to drag him away to get our turn. Finally Haie stood Himmelstoss on his feet again and gave one last personal remonstrance. As he stretched out his right arm preparatory to giving him a box on the ear he looked as if he were going to reach down a star. Himmelstoss staggered. Haie stood him up again, made ready and fetched him a second, well-aimed beauty with the left hand. Himmelstoss yelled and fell down on all fours cursing. His striped postman's backside gleamed in the moonlight. We disappeared at full speed. Haie looked round once again and said wrathfully, satisfied and rather mysteriously: "Revenge is black-pudding." Himmelstoss ought to have been pleased; his saying that we should each
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give to be able to go back to it! But we must not pursue that line of thought any further. Those early morning hours of instruction-- "What are the parts of the 98 rifle?" --the midday hours of physical training-- "Pianist, forward! By the right, quick march. Report to the cook-house for potato-peeling." We indulge in reminiscences. Kropp laughs suddenly and says: "Change at Löhne!" That was our corporal's favourite game. Löhne is a railway junction. In order that our fellows going on leave shouldn't get lost there, Himmelstoss used to practise the change in the barrack-room. We had to learn that at Löhne, to reach the branch-line, we must pass through a subway. The beds represented the subway and each man stood at attention on the left side of his bed. Then came the command: "Change at Löhne!" and like lightning everyone scrambled under the bed to the opposite side. We practised this for a whole hour---- Meanwhile the German aeroplane has been shot down. Like a comet it bursts into a streamer of smoke and falls headlong. Kropp has lost the bottle of beer. Disgruntled he counts out the money from his wallet. "Surely Himmelstoss was a very different fellow as a postman," say I, after Albert's disappointment has subsided. "Then how does it come that he's such a bully as a drill-sergeant?" The question revives Kropp, more particularly as he hears there's no more beer in the canteen. "It's not only Himmelstoss, there are lots of them. As sure as they get a stripe or a star they become different men, just as though they'd swallowed concrete." "That's the uniform," I suggest. "Roughly speaking it is," says Kat, and prepares for a long speech; "but the root of the matter lies elsewhere. For instance, if you train a dog to eat potatoes and then afterwards put a piece of meat in front of him, he'll snap at it, it's his nature. And if you give a man a little bit of authority he behaves just the same way, he snaps at it too. The things are precisely the same. In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum. The army is based on that; one man must always have power over the other. The mischief is merely that each one has much too much power. A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We are glad enough to be able to trail arms but we sing spiritlessly. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour's drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what's the use of all that? It's simply that the company commander's head has been turned by having so much power. And nobody blames him. On the contrary, he is praised for being strict. That, of course, is only a trifling instance, but it holds also in very different affairs. Now I ask you: Let a man be whatever you like in peace-time, what occupation is there in which he can behave like that without getting a crack on the nose? He can only do that in the army. It goes to the heads of them all, you see. And the more insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him." "They say, of course, there must be discipline," ventures Kropp meditatively. "True," growls Kat, "they always do. And it may be so; still it oughtn't to become an abuse. But you try to explain that to a blacksmith or a labourer or a workman, you try to make that clear to a simple tommy--and that's what most of them are here. All he understands is that he has been properly trained so that when he comes up to the front he thinks he knows exactly what he should do in every circumstance and what not. It's simply amazing, I tell you, that the ordinary soldier survives so long up here in the front-line. Simply amazing!" No one protests. Everyone knows that drill ceases only in the front-line and begins again a few miles behind, with all the absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him so that he stood there in a white sack unable to raise his arms. The singing stopped. The next moment Haie Westhus was there, and spreading out his arms he shoved us back in order to be first in. He put himself in position with evident satisfaction, raised his arm like a signal-mast and his hand like a coal-shovel and fetched such a blow on the white sack as would have felled an ox. Himmelstoss was thrown down, he rolled five yards and started to yell. But we were prepared for that and had brought a cushion. Haie squatted down, laid the cushion on his knees, felt where Himmelstoss's head was and pressed it down on the pillow. Immediately his voice was muffled. Haie let him get a gasp of air every so often, when he would give a mighty yell that was immediately hushed. Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and pulled down his trousers, holding the whip meantime in his teeth. Then he stood up and set to work. It was a wonderful picture: Himmelstoss on the ground; Haie bending over him with a fiendish grin and his mouth open with blood-lust, Himmelstoss's head on his knees; then the convulsed, striped drawers, the knock knees, executing at every blow most original movements in the lowered breeches, and towering over them like a woodcutter the indefatigable Tjaden. In the end we had to drag him away to get our turn. Finally Haie stood Himmelstoss on his feet again and gave one last personal remonstrance. As he stretched out his right arm preparatory to giving him a box on the ear he looked as if he were going to reach down a star. Himmelstoss staggered. Haie stood him up again, made ready and fetched him a second, well-aimed beauty with the left hand. Himmelstoss yelled and fell down on all fours cursing. His striped postman's backside gleamed in the moonlight. We disappeared at full speed. Haie looked round once again and said wrathfully, satisfied and rather mysteriously: "Revenge is black-pudding." Himmelstoss ought to have been pleased; his saying that we should each educate one another had borne fruit for himself. We had become successful students of his method. He never discovered whom he had to thank for the business. At any rate he scored a bed-cover out of it; for when we returned a few hours later to look for it, it was no longer to be found. That evening's work made us more or less content to leave next morning. And an old buffer was pleased to describe us as "young heroes." CHAPTER IV We have to go up on wiring fatigue. The motor lorries roll up after dark. We climb in. It is a warm evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light. We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid
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In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum. The army is based on that; one man must always have power over the other. The mischief is merely that each one has much too much power. A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We are glad enough to be able to trail arms but we sing spiritlessly. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour's drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what's the use of all that? It's simply that the company commander's head has been turned by having so much power. And nobody blames him. On the contrary, he is praised for being strict. That, of course, is only a trifling instance, but it holds also in very different affairs. Now I ask you: Let a man be whatever you like in peace-time, what occupation is there in which he can behave like that without getting a crack on the nose? He can only do that in the army. It goes to the heads of them all, you see. And the more insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him." "They say, of course, there must be discipline," ventures Kropp meditatively. "True," growls Kat, "they always do. And it may be so; still it oughtn't to become an abuse. But you try to explain that to a blacksmith or a labourer or a workman, you try to make that clear to a simple tommy--and that's what most of them are here. All he understands is that he has been properly trained so that when he comes up to the front he thinks he knows exactly what he should do in every circumstance and what not. It's simply amazing, I tell you, that the ordinary soldier survives so long up here in the front-line. Simply amazing!" No one protests. Everyone knows that drill ceases only in the front-line and begins again a few miles behind, with all the absurdities of saluting and parade. It is an iron law that the soldier must be employed under every circumstance. Here Tjaden comes up with a flushed face. He is so excited that he stutters. Beaming with satisfaction he stammers out: "Himmelstoss is on his way. He's coming to the front!"<|quote|>* * Tjaden has a special grudge against Himmelstoss, because of the way he educated him in the barracks. Tjaden wets his bed, he does it at night in his sleep. Himmelstoss maintained that it was sheer laziness and invented a method worthy of himself for curing Tjaden. He hunted up another piss-a-bed, named Kindervater, from a neighbouring hut, and quartered him with Tjaden. In the huts there were the usual bunks, one above the other in pairs, with mattresses of wire-netting. Himmelstoss put these two so that one occupied the upper and the other the lower bunk. The man underneath was of course disgusted. The next night they were changed over and the lower one put on top so that he could retaliate. That was Himmelstoss's system of self-education. The idea was low but not ill-conceived. Unfortunately it accomplished nothing because the first assumption was wrong: it was not laziness in either of them. Anyone who looked at their sallow skin could see that. The matter ended in one of them always sleeping on the floor, where he frequently caught cold. Meanwhile Haie sits down beside us. He winks at me and rubs his paws thoughtfully. We once spent the finest day of our army-life together--the day before we left for the front. We had been allotted to one of the recently formed regiments, but were first to be sent back for equipment to the garrison, not to the reinforcement-depot, of course, but to another barracks. We were due to leave next morning early. In the evening we prepared ourselves to square accounts with Himmelstoss. We had sworn for weeks past to do this. Kropp had even gone so far as to propose entering the postal service in peace-time in order to be Himmelstoss's superior when he became a postman again. He revelled in the thought of how he would grind him. It was this that made it impossible for him to crush us altogether--we always reckoned that later, at the end of the war, we would have our revenge on him. In the meantime we decided to give him a good hiding. What could he do to us anyhow if he didn't recognize us and we left early the next morning? We knew which pub he used to visit every evening. Returning to the barracks he had to go along a dark, uninhabited road. There we waited for him behind a pile of stones. I had a bed-cover with me. We trembled with suspense, hoping he would be alone. At last we heard his footstep, which we recognized easily, so often had we heard it in the mornings as the door flew open and he bawled:</|quote|>"Get up!" "Alone?" whispered Kropp. "Alone." I slipped round the pile of stones with Tjaden. Himmelstoss seemed a little elevated; he was singing. His belt-buckle gleamed. He came on unsuspectingly. We seized the bed-cover, made a quick leap, threw it over his head from behind and pulled it round him so that he stood there in a white sack unable to raise his arms. The singing stopped. The next moment Haie Westhus was there, and spreading out his arms he shoved us back in order to be first in. He put himself in position with evident satisfaction, raised his arm like a signal-mast and his hand like a coal-shovel and fetched such a blow on the white sack as would have felled an ox. Himmelstoss was thrown down, he rolled five yards and started to yell. But we were prepared for that and had brought a cushion. Haie squatted down, laid the cushion on his knees, felt where Himmelstoss's head was and pressed it down on the pillow. Immediately his voice was muffled. Haie let him get a gasp of air every so often, when he would give a mighty yell that was immediately hushed. Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and pulled down his trousers, holding the whip meantime in his teeth. Then he stood up and set to work. It was a wonderful picture: Himmelstoss on the ground; Haie bending over him with a fiendish grin and his mouth open with blood-lust, Himmelstoss's head on his knees; then the convulsed, striped drawers, the knock knees, executing at every blow most original movements in the lowered breeches, and towering over them like a woodcutter the indefatigable Tjaden. In the end we had to drag him away to get our turn. Finally Haie stood Himmelstoss on his feet again and gave one last personal remonstrance. As he stretched out his right arm preparatory to giving him a box on the ear he looked as if he were going to reach down a star. Himmelstoss staggered. Haie stood him up again, made ready and fetched him a second, well-aimed beauty with the left hand. Himmelstoss yelled and fell down on all fours cursing. His striped postman's backside gleamed in the moonlight. We disappeared at full speed. Haie looked round once again and said wrathfully, satisfied and rather mysteriously: "Revenge
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."
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Margaret
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won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too,"
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t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just
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not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just
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It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For
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the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr
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dare hope for. Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the administration of the millionaire s money in their own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal supervision and mutual help," the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful--in a men s debate is the reverse more general?--but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got
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sense," added Margaret, but the protest continued. "Well, isn t the most civilized thing going, the man who has learnt to wear his income properly?" "Exactly what your Mr. Basts won t do." "Give them a chance. Give them money. Don t dole them out poetry-books and railway-tickets like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. When your Socialism comes it may be different, and we may think in terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it comes give people cash, for it is the warp of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The imagination ought to play upon money and realise it vividly, for it s the--the second most important thing in the world. It is so slurred over and hushed up, there is so little clear thinking--oh, political economy, of course, but so few of us think clearly about our own private incomes, and admit that independent thoughts are in nine cases out of ten the result of independent means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don t bother about his ideals. He ll pick up those for himself." She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was asked however she could say such dreadful things, and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul. She answered, "Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world." Then they said, "No, we do not believe it," and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked the fabric of Society--Property, Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in an universal grey. To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the utmost she dare hope for. Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the administration of the millionaire s money in their own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal supervision and mutual help," the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful--in a men s debate is the reverse more general?--but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got to go," he said simply. "England will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in West Africa, Ger--untold complications may follow. Now tell me all your news." "Oh, we ve had a splendid evening," cried Helen, who always woke up at the advent of a visitor. "We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret and I--all women, but there is a discussion after. This evening it was on how one ought to leave one s money--whether to one s family, or to the poor, and if so how--oh, most interesting." The man of business smiled. Since his wife s death he had almost doubled his income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on company prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The world seemed in his grasp as he listened to the River Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He had helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and other capitalists thought good, some day it could be shortened again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he did not know could not be worth knowing. "Sounds a most original entertainment!" he exclaimed, and laughed in his pleasant way. "I wish Evie would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn t the time. She s taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers--jolly little dogs." "I expect we d better be doing the same, really." "We pretend we re improving ourselves, you see," said Helen a little sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter memories of the days when a speech such as he had just made would have impressed her favourably. "We suppose it a good thing to waste an evening once a fortnight over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may be better to breed dogs." "Not at all. I don t agree with your sister. There s nothing like a debate to teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a youngster. It would have helped
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and lost his own soul. She answered, "Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world." Then they said, "No, we do not believe it," and she admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the deed, but she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked the fabric of Society--Property, Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few human beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could be made happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-coloured efforts thereto spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in an universal grey. To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the utmost she dare hope for. Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the administration of the millionaire s money in their own hands. The earnest girl brought forward a scheme of "personal supervision and mutual help," the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful--in a men s debate is the reverse more general?--but the meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of the second act. "Cold?" "No." "Tired?" "Doesn t matter." The earnest girl s train rumbled away over the bridge. "I say, Helen--" "Well?" "Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?" "I don t know." "I think we won t." "As you like."<|quote|>"It s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn t play at friendship. No, it s no good."</|quote|>"There s Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull." "Just so, and possibly worse than dull." "I should like to know how he got hold of your card." "But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella." "Then did the card see the wife--" "Helen, come to bed." "No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say money is the warp of the world?" "Yes." "Then what s the woof?" "Very much what one chooses," said Margaret. "It s something that isn t money--one can t say more." "Walking at night?" "Probably." "For Tibby, Oxford?" "It seems so." "For you?" "Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it s that. For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End." One s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled along towards the speakers. "It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people," continued Margaret. "Why, Meg? They re so much nicer generally. I d rather think of that forester s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived in it." "I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It s one of the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. "How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever are you both doing down here?" His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it as part of the good man s equipment. "What an age it is since I ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son." "Paul?" said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between them. "Oh, Paul s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He ll be at work again by now." "Ugh--" said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. "I beg your pardon?" "Isn t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?" "Some one s got to go," he said simply. "England will never keep her trade overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices.
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Howards End
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"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"
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Josiah Bounderby
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Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with
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were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a
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a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich
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what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what
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me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further." "Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder,
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one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, "if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further." "Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the
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very fast "may I take the liberty of asking you how it happens that you refused to be in this Combination?" "How 't happens?" "Ah!" said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head and shutting his eyes in confidence with the opposite wall: "how it happens." "I'd leefer not coom to 't, sir; but sin you put th' question an' not want'n t' be ill-manner'n I'll answer. I ha passed a promess." "Not to me, you know," said Bounderby. (Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One now prevailing.) "O no, sir. Not to yo." "As for me, any consideration for me has had just nothing at all to do with it," said Bounderby, still in confidence with the wall. "If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had been in question, you would have joined and made no bones about it?" "Why yes, sir. 'Tis true." "Though he knows," said Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a gale, "that there are a set of rascals and rebels whom transportation is too good for! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have been knocking about in the world some time. Did you ever meet with anything like that man out of this blessed country?" And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an angry finger. "Nay, ma'am," said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been used, and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. "Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind, ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me a kindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. But there's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am a dozen? Not six but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha' known, and had'n experience o' these men aw my life I, that ha' ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em, and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail fur to stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon to me what they may!" He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and character deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. "No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another, faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, "if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further." "Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do't?" "I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate," returned Mr. Bounderby. "We will make an example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the blackguards for felony, and get 'em shipped off to penal settlements." Stephen gravely shook his head. "Don't tell me we won't, man," said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, "because we will, I tell you!" "Sir," returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, "if yo was t' tak a hundred Slackbridges aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd an' was t' sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle just wheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!" said Stephen, with an anxious smile; "when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not by _them_ the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' _them_ 't commences. I ha no favour for 'em I ha no reason to favour 'em but 'tis hopeless and useless to dream o' takin them fro their trade, 'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that's now about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an' pack it off to Norfolk Island, an' the time will go on just the same. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit." Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind. "Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this though some working men o' this town could, above my powers but I can tell him what I know will never do 't. The strong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry and triumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettin alone will never do 't. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw'en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness and patience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi' what they need themseln like, I humbly believe, as no people the
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'fectionate to one another, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different." "In short," said Mr. Bounderby, "it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it." "How 'tis, ma'am," resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa's face, "that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an' mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We're patient too, an' wants in general to do right. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us." "Now, my friend," said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, "if you will favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further." "Sir, I am sure on 't." "Here's a gentleman from London present," Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with his thumb, "a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the substance of it for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; nobody knows better than I do, take notice! instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth." Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby's face. "Now, what do you complain of?" asked Mr. Bounderby. "I ha' not coom here, sir," Stephen reminded him, "to complain. I coom for that I were sent for." "What," repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms,<|quote|>"do you people, in a general way, complain of?"</|quote|>Stephen looked at him with some little irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. "Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though I ha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town so rich as 'tis and see the numbers o' people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw the same one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an' wheer we live, an' in what numbers, an' by what chances, and wi' what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis'ant object ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o' State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and never had'n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an' bigger, broader an' broader, harder an' harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairly tell a man 'tis not a muddle?" "Of course," said Mr. Bounderby. "Now perhaps you'll let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as you're so fond of calling it) to rights." "I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tis them as is
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Hard Times
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The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.
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No speaker
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actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?"
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are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting."
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you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon
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think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I
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door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I
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it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that." He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have killed my love," he muttered. She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room.
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cried. "Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered." The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don t you?" "Understand what?" he asked, angrily. "Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again." He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored." She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came oh, my beautiful love! and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that." He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have killed my love," he muttered. She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge s barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they
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from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that." He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have killed my love," he muttered. She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face."<|quote|>The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.</|quote|>"You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me." A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. "I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"
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Mr. Hastings
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them." "Dear me," I murmured,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"Yes, and it was a
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meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I
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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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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
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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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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
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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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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
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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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "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
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a blind to throw suspicion on John Cavendish." "But now a hitch occurs. Mrs. Inglethorp does not take her medicine that night. The broken bell, Cynthia's absence arranged by Inglethorp through his wife all these are wasted. And then he makes his slip." "Mrs. Inglethorp is out, and he sits down to write to his accomplice, who, he fears, may be in a panic at the non-success of their plan. It is probable that Mrs. Inglethorp returned earlier than he expected. Caught in the act, and somewhat flurried he hastily shuts and locks his desk. He fears that if he remains in the room he may have to open it again, and that Mrs. Inglethorp might catch sight of the letter before he could snatch it up. So he goes out and walks in the woods, little dreaming that Mrs. Inglethorp will open his desk, and discover the incriminating document." "But this, as we know, is what happened. Mrs. Inglethorp reads it, and becomes aware of the perfidy of her husband and Evelyn Howard, though, unfortunately, the sentence about the bromides conveys no warning to her mind. She knows that she is in danger but is ignorant of where the danger lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down and writes to her solicitor, asking him to come on the morrow, and she also determines to destroy immediately the will which she has just made. She keeps the fatal letter." "It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock of the despatch-case?" "Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he realized its importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the crime." "There's only one thing I can't make out, why didn't he destroy it at once when he got hold of it?" "Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all that of keeping it on his own person." "I don't understand." "Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five short minutes in which he could have taken it the five minutes immediately before our own arrival on the 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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "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
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his own person." "I don't understand." "Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five short minutes in which he could have taken it the five minutes immediately before our own arrival on the 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,<|quote|>"so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"</|quote|>"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?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "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
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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"No, Elinor,"
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Marianne
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"Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you
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of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The
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fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter,
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Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
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for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither
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not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in
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He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend. Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. "Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow." With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married." "For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed,
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sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX. Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I ask ?"<|quote|>"No, Elinor,"</|quote|>she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
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Sense And Sensibility
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"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."
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Paul
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here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement
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no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course,
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I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we
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used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that
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a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you
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t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and
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one another and to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter." "Yes, but who settled us down?" Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her pince-nez to watch it. "You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though you re too stupid to see. Living here was your plan--I wanted you; he wanted you; and everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives without you, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a home. Can t it strike you--even for a moment--that your life has been heroic? Can t you remember the two months after Charles s arrest, when you began to act, and did all?" "You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did the obvious things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was obvious. I didn t know myself it would turn into a permanent home. No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the tangle, but things that I can t phrase have helped me." "I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting away to other thoughts. "I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our own." "All the same, London s creeping." She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end of them was a red rust. "You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I m afraid. Life s going to be melted down, all over the world." Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? "Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever," she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won t be a movement, because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I can t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that our house is the future as well as the past." They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door opened. "The conclave s breaking at last. I ll go." It was Paul. Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?" Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: "Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, piccaninnies included." Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don t, Paul. You promised you d take care." Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don t you worry about me." "Good-bye, dad." Then it was Dolly s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all." From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret, and kissed her. And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Dolly." "So long, father." "Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself." "Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox." "Good-bye." Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly s remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me, Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?" Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled Howards End on a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me in the future." Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and she shivered. "I didn t do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down. "You didn t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong." From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry, disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious joy. "The field s cut!" Helen cried excitedly--" "the big meadow! We ve seen to the very end, and it ll be such a crop of hay as never!" WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.
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the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. "My father has asked for you," he said with hostility. She took her work and followed him. "We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew all about it beforehand." "Yes, I did." Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take Dolly s boa and gloves out of a vase. Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. "Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I don t want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been unfair." "It s apparently got to suit us," said Paul. "I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house to you instead." Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I ve given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the business, it s no good my settling down here," he said at last.<|quote|>"It s not really the country, and it s not the town."</|quote|>"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?" "Of course, father." "And you, Dolly?" Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can t think of any other name." There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. "Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no surprise." Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. "In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to diminish
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Howards End
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he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:
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No speaker
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let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa
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he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New
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and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an
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that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself. Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and
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accompanied by a sense of compunction and self-abasement of which Newland Archer felt no trace. He could not deplore (as Thackeray's heroes so often exasperated him by doing) that he had not a blank page to offer his bride in exchange for the unblemished one she was to give to him. He could not get away from the fact that if he had been brought up as she had they would have been no more fit to find their way about than the Babes in the Wood; nor could he, for all his anxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any, that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself. Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn't expect the old traditions to last much longer. Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence. "Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer
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had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idyls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at HIS jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently-gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt himself oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow. There was a certain triteness in these reflections: they were those habitual to young men on the approach of their wedding day. But they were generally accompanied by a sense of compunction and self-abasement of which Newland Archer felt no trace. He could not deplore (as Thackeray's heroes so often exasperated him by doing) that he had not a blank page to offer his bride in exchange for the unblemished one she was to give to him. He could not get away from the fact that if he had been brought up as she had they would have been no more fit to find their way about than the Babes in the Wood; nor could he, for all his anxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any, that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself. Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn't expect the old traditions to last much longer. Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence. "Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer would say to her children, "all this modern newspaper rubbish about a New York aristocracy. If there is one, neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong to it; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were just respectable English or Dutch merchants, who came to the colonies to make their fortune, and stayed here because they did so well. One of your great-grandfathers signed the Declaration, and another was a general on Washington's staff, and received General Burgoyne's sword after the battle of Saratoga. These are things to be proud of, but they have nothing to do with rank or class. New York has always been a commercial community, and there are not more than three families in it who can claim an aristocratic origin in the real sense of the word." Mrs. Archer and her son and daughter, like every one else in New York, knew who these privileged beings were: the Dagonets of Washington Square, who came of an old English county family allied with the Pitts and Foxes; the Lannings, who had intermarried with the descendants of Count de Grasse, and the van der Luydens, direct descendants of the first Dutch governor
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marriage becoming what most of the other marriages about him were: a dull association of material and social interests held together by ignorance on the one side and hypocrisy on the other. Lawrence Lefferts occurred to him as the husband who had most completely realised this enviable ideal. As became the high-priest of form, he had formed a wife so completely to his own convenience that, in the most conspicuous moments of his frequent love-affairs with other men's wives, she went about in smiling unconsciousness, saying that "Lawrence was so frightfully strict"; and had been known to blush indignantly, and avert her gaze, when some one alluded in her presence to the fact that Julius Beaufort (as became a "foreigner" of doubtful origin) had what was known in New York as "another establishment." Archer tried to console himself with the thought that he was not quite such an ass as Larry Lefferts, nor May such a simpleton as poor Gertrude; but the difference was after all one of intelligence and not of standards. In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs; as when Mrs. Welland, who knew exactly why Archer had pressed her to announce her daughter's engagement at the Beaufort ball (and had indeed expected him to do no less), yet felt obliged to simulate reluctance, and the air of having had her hand forced, quite as, in the books on Primitive Man that people of advanced culture were beginning to read, the savage bride is dragged with shrieks from her parents' tent. The result, of course, was that the young girl who was the centre of this elaborate system of mystification remained the more inscrutable for her very frankness and assurance. She was frank, poor darling, because she had nothing to conceal, assured because she knew of nothing to be on her guard against; and with no better preparation than this, she was to be plunged overnight into what people evasively called "the facts of life." The young man was sincerely but placidly in love. He delighted in the radiant good looks of his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship, her grace and quickness at games, and the shy interest in books and ideas that she was beginning to develop under his guidance. (She had advanced far enough to join him in ridiculing the Idyls of the King, but not to feel the beauty of Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She was straightforward, loyal and brave; she had a sense of humour (chiefly proved by her laughing at HIS jokes); and he suspected, in the depths of her innocently-gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt himself oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow. There was a certain triteness in these reflections: they were those habitual to young men on the approach of their wedding day. But they were generally accompanied by a sense of compunction and self-abasement of which Newland Archer felt no trace. He could not deplore (as Thackeray's heroes so often exasperated him by doing) that he had not a blank page to offer his bride in exchange for the unblemished one she was to give to him. He could not get away from the fact that if he had been brought up as she had they would have been no more fit to find their way about than the Babes in the Wood; nor could he, for all his anxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any, that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself. Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn't expect the old traditions to last much longer. Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence. "Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer would say to her children, "all this modern newspaper rubbish about a New York aristocracy. If there is one, neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong to it; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were just respectable English or Dutch merchants, who came to the colonies to make their fortune, and stayed here because they did so well. One of your great-grandfathers signed the Declaration, and another was a general on Washington's staff, and received General Burgoyne's sword after the battle of Saratoga. These are things to be proud of, but they have nothing to do with rank or class. New York has always been a commercial community, and there are not more than three families in it who can claim an aristocratic origin in the real sense of the word." Mrs. Archer and her son and daughter, like every one else in New York, knew who these privileged beings were: the Dagonets of Washington Square, who came of an old English county family allied with the Pitts and Foxes; the Lannings, who had intermarried with the descendants of Count de Grasse, and the van der Luydens, direct descendants of the first Dutch governor of Manhattan, and related by pre-revolutionary marriages to several members of the French and British aristocracy. The Lannings survived only in the person of two very old but lively Miss Lannings, who lived cheerfully and reminiscently among family portraits and Chippendale; the Dagonets were a considerable clan, allied to the best names in Baltimore and Philadelphia; but the van der Luydens, who stood above all of them, had faded into a kind of super-terrestrial twilight, from which only two figures impressively emerged; those of Mr. and Mrs. Henry van der Luyden. Mrs. Henry van der Luyden had been Louisa Dagonet, and her mother had been the granddaughter of Colonel du Lac, of an old Channel Island family, who had fought under Cornwallis and had settled in Maryland, after the war, with his bride, Lady Angelica Trevenna, fifth daughter of the Earl of St. Austrey. The tie between the Dagonets, the du Lacs of Maryland, and their aristocratic Cornish kinsfolk, the Trevennas, had always remained close and cordial. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden had more than once paid long visits to the present head of the house of Trevenna, the Duke of St. Austrey, at his country-seat in Cornwall and at St. Austrey in Gloucestershire; and his Grace had frequently announced his intention of some day returning their visit (without the Duchess, who feared the Atlantic). Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden divided their time between Trevenna, their place in Maryland, and Skuytercliff, the great estate on the Hudson which had been one of the colonial grants of the Dutch government to the famous first Governor, and of which Mr. van der Luyden was still "Patroon." Their large solemn house in Madison Avenue was seldom opened, and when they came to town they received in it only their most intimate friends. "I wish you would go with me, Newland," his mother said, suddenly pausing at the door of the Brown coupe. "Louisa is fond of you; and of course it's on account of dear May that I'm taking this step--and also because, if we don't all stand together, there'll be no such thing as Society left." VII. Mrs. Henry van der Luyden listened in silence to her cousin Mrs. Archer's narrative. It was all very well to tell yourself in advance that Mrs. van der Luyden was always silent, and that, though non-committal by nature and training, she was very
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he suspected, in the depths of her innocently-gazing soul, a glow of feeling that it would be a joy to waken. But when he had gone the brief round of her he returned discouraged by the thought that all this frankness and innocence were only an artificial product. Untrained human nature was not frank and innocent; it was full of the twists and defences of an instinctive guile. And he felt himself oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow. There was a certain triteness in these reflections: they were those habitual to young men on the approach of their wedding day. But they were generally accompanied by a sense of compunction and self-abasement of which Newland Archer felt no trace. He could not deplore (as Thackeray's heroes so often exasperated him by doing) that he had not a blank page to offer his bride in exchange for the unblemished one she was to give to him. He could not get away from the fact that if he had been brought up as she had they would have been no more fit to find their way about than the Babes in the Wood; nor could he, for all his anxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any, that is, unconnected with his own momentary pleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity) why his bride should not have been allowed the same freedom of experience as himself. Such questions, at such an hour, were bound to drift through his mind; but he was conscious that their uncomfortable persistence and precision were due to the inopportune arrival of the Countess Olenska. Here he was, at the very moment of his betrothal--a moment for pure thoughts and cloudless hopes--pitchforked into a coil of scandal which raised all the special problems he would have preferred to let lie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!"<|quote|>he grumbled, as he covered his fire and began to undress. He could not really see why her fate should have the least bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that he had only just begun to measure the risks of the championship which his engagement had forced upon him. A few days later the bolt fell. The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards for what was known as "a formal dinner" (that is, three extra footmen, two dishes for each course, and a Roman punch in the middle), and had headed their invitations with the words "To meet the Countess Olenska," in accordance with the hospitable American fashion, which treats strangers as if they were royalties, or at least as their ambassadors. The guests had been selected with a boldness and discrimination in which the initiated recognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great. Associated with such immemorial standbys as the Selfridge Merrys, who were asked everywhere because they always had been, the Beauforts, on whom there was a claim of relationship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sister Sophy (who went wherever her brother told her to), were some of the most fashionable and yet most irreproachable of the dominant "young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses, Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow), the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses and young Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was a van der Luyden). The company indeed was perfectly assorted, since all the members belonged to the little inner group of people who, during the long New York season, disported themselves together daily and nightly with apparently undiminished zest. Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable had happened; every one had refused the Mingotts' invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr. Jackson and his sister. The intended slight was emphasised by the fact that even the Reggie Chiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, were among those inflicting it; and by the uniform wording of the notes, in all of which the writers "regretted that they were unable to accept," without the mitigating plea of a "previous engagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed. New York society was, in those days, far too small, and too scant in its resources, for every one in it (including livery-stable-keepers, butlers and cooks) not to know exactly on which evenings people were free; and it was thus possible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott's invitations to make cruelly clear their determination not to meet the Countess Olenska. The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, as their way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. Lovell Mingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland, who confided it to Newland Archer; who, aflame at the outrage, appealed passionately and authoritatively to his mother; who, after a painful period of inward resistance and outward temporising, succumbed to his instances (as she always did), and immediately embracing his cause with an energy redoubled by her previous hesitations, put on her grey velvet bonnet and said:</|quote|>"I'll go and see Louisa van der Luyden." The New York of Newland Archer's day was a small and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet, hardly a fissure had been made or a foothold gained. At its base was a firm foundation of what Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; an honourable but obscure majority of respectable families who (as in the case of the Spicers or the Leffertses or the Jacksons) had been raised above their level by marriage with one of the ruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said, were not as particular as they used to be; and with old Catherine Spicer ruling one end of Fifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other, you couldn't expect the old traditions to last much longer. Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthy but inconspicuous substratum was the compact and dominant group which the Mingotts, Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so actively represented. Most people imagined them to be the very apex of the pyramid; but they themselves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's generation) were aware that, in the eyes of the professional genealogist, only a still smaller number of families could lay claim to that eminence. "Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer would say to her children, "all this modern newspaper rubbish about a New York aristocracy. If there is one, neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong to it; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were just respectable English or Dutch merchants, who came to the colonies to make their fortune, and stayed here because they did so well. One of your great-grandfathers signed the Declaration, and another was a general on Washington's staff, and received General Burgoyne's sword after the battle of Saratoga. These are things to be proud of, but they have nothing to do with rank or class. New York has always been a commercial community, and there are not more than three families in it who can claim an aristocratic origin in the real sense of the word." Mrs. Archer and
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The Age Of Innocence
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Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
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No speaker
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and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to
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Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved
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has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips
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Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time
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that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the
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striking her fist against the table. "That s what we haven t got! We re virtuous, we re earnest, we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we don t live as they lived. As often as not, my father wasn t in bed three nights out of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a day s pleasuring Richmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldn t we go, Katharine? It s going to be a fine day." At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as "Aunt Celia!" She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come. It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was, suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street," Aunt Celia continued firmly. "A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But
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she went on, turning the pages, "who took her coffin out with her to Jamaica, packed with lovely shawls and bonnets, because you couldn t get coffins in Jamaica, and she had a horror of dying there (as she did), and being devoured by the white ants. And there s Sabine, the loveliest of them all; ah! it was like a star rising when she came into the room. And that s Miriam, in her coachman s cloak, with all the little capes on, and she wore great top-boots underneath. You young people may say you re unconventional, but you re nothing compared with her." Turning the page, she came upon the picture of a very masculine, handsome lady, whose head the photographer had adorned with an imperial crown. "Ah, you wretch!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed, "what a wicked old despot you were, in your day! How we all bowed down before you! Maggie, she used to say, if it hadn t been for me, where would you be now? And it was true; she brought them together, you know. She said to my father, Marry her, and he did; and she said to poor little Clara, Fall down and worship him, and she did; but she got up again, of course. What else could one expect? She was a mere child eighteen and half dead with fright, too. But that old tyrant never repented. She used to say that she had given them three perfect months, and no one had a right to more; and I sometimes think, Katharine, that s true, you know. It s more than most of us have, only we have to pretend, which was a thing neither of them could ever do. I fancy," Mrs. Hilbery mused, "that there was a kind of sincerity in those days between men and women which, with all your outspokenness, you haven t got." Katharine again tried to interrupt. But Mrs. Hilbery had been gathering impetus from her recollections, and was now in high spirits. "They must have been good friends at heart," she resumed, "because she used to sing his songs. Ah, how did it go?" and Mrs. Hilbery, who had a very sweet voice, trolled out a famous lyric of her father s which had been set to an absurdly and charmingly sentimental air by some early Victorian composer. "It s the vitality of them!" she concluded, striking her fist against the table. "That s what we haven t got! We re virtuous, we re earnest, we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we don t live as they lived. As often as not, my father wasn t in bed three nights out of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a day s pleasuring Richmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldn t we go, Katharine? It s going to be a fine day." At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as "Aunt Celia!" She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come. It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was, suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street," Aunt Celia continued firmly. "A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through. "We must realize Cyril s point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a
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used to sing his songs. Ah, how did it go?" and Mrs. Hilbery, who had a very sweet voice, trolled out a famous lyric of her father s which had been set to an absurdly and charmingly sentimental air by some early Victorian composer. "It s the vitality of them!" she concluded, striking her fist against the table. "That s what we haven t got! We re virtuous, we re earnest, we go to meetings, we pay the poor their wages, but we don t live as they lived. As often as not, my father wasn t in bed three nights out of the seven, but always fresh as paint in the morning. I hear him now, come singing up the stairs to the nursery, and tossing the loaf for breakfast on his sword-stick, and then off we went for a day s pleasuring Richmond, Hampton Court, the Surrey Hills. Why shouldn t we go, Katharine? It s going to be a fine day." At this moment, just as Mrs. Hilbery was examining the weather from the window, there was a knock at the door. A slight, elderly lady came in, and was saluted by Katharine, with very evident dismay, as "Aunt Celia!" She was dismayed because she guessed why Aunt Celia had come. It was certainly in order to discuss the case of Cyril and the woman who was not his wife, and owing to her procrastination Mrs. Hilbery was quite unprepared. Who could be more unprepared? Here she was, suggesting that all three of them should go on a jaunt to Blackfriars to inspect the site of Shakespeare s theater, for the weather was hardly settled enough for the country. To this proposal Mrs. Milvain listened with a patient smile, which indicated that for many years she had accepted such eccentricities in her sister-in-law with bland philosophy. Katharine took up her position at some distance, standing with her foot on the fender, as though by so doing she could get a better view of the matter. But, in spite of her aunt s presence, how unreal the whole question of Cyril and his morality appeared! The difficulty, it now seemed, was not to break the news gently to Mrs. Hilbery, but to make her understand it. How was one to lasso her mind, and tether it to this minute, unimportant spot? A matter-of-fact statement seemed best. "I think Aunt Celia has come to talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way."<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment.</|quote|>"We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the
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Night And Day
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repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.
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No speaker
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"It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and
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go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to
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but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently,
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parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That
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would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely
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the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby s old bassinette. "The nursery," she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl s silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. "It s a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So
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and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible. "Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly. "Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby s old bassinette. "The nursery," she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl s silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. "It s a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex--a sort of powder-closet for the cows. "Yes, the maidy s well enough," said Miss Avery, "for those, that is, who don t suffer from sneezing." And she cackled maliciously. "I ve seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--they mustn t do that--he d learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has it from his father, with other things. There s not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June--I laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth." "My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret. "This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you ve found." Margaret laughed. "They keep a place going, don t they? Yes, it is just that." "They keep England going, it is my opinion." But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, well, it s a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn t for us to repine." "They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ll never be a bad one--never really bad." "No, better n nothing," said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm. On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more clearly than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished the first wife from the second. Now she said: "I never saw much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let any one be turned away without food. Then it was never Trespassers will be prosecuted in their land, but would people please not come in? Mrs. Howard was never created to run a farm." "Had they no men to
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explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake,"<|quote|>repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down.</|quote|>"A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby s old bassinette. "The nursery," she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl s silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. "It s a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex--a sort of powder-closet for the cows. "Yes, the maidy s well enough," said Miss Avery, "for those, that is, who don t suffer from sneezing." And she cackled maliciously. "I ve seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--they mustn t do that--he d learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has it from his father, with other things. There s not one Wilcox that
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Howards End
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Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.
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No speaker
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news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr.
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enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How
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exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle.
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important, our salaries prove it." "Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday afternoon," piped Rafi, the engineer's nephew. "Professor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?" Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. "Humbug!" exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle. "Yes, Rafi's the great man," said Hamidullah, rubbing it in. "Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. Speak up, Rafi." Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word "Diarrh a," but took courage as soon as it had been uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion shot
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when the noise of wheels was heard in his compound. Someone had called to enquire. The thought of sympathy increased his fever, and with a sincere groan he wrapped himself in his quilt. "Aziz, my dear fellow, we are greatly concerned," said Hamidullah's voice. One, two, three, four bumps, as people sat down upon his bed. "When a doctor falls ill it is a serious matter," said the voice of Mr. Syed Mohammed, the assistant engineer. "When an engineer falls ill, it is equally important," said the voice of Mr. Haq, a police inspector. "Oh yes, we are all jolly important, our salaries prove it." "Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday afternoon," piped Rafi, the engineer's nephew. "Professor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?" Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. "Humbug!" exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle. "Yes, Rafi's the great man," said Hamidullah, rubbing it in. "Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. Speak up, Rafi." Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word "Diarrh a," but took courage as soon as it had been uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion shot up again in the breasts of his elders, though in a different direction. Could what was called diarrh a really be an early case of cholera? "If this is so, this is a very serious thing: this is scarcely the end of March. Why have I not been informed?" cried Aziz. "Dr. Panna Lal attends him, sir." "Oh yes, both Hindus; there we have it; they hang together like flies and keep everything dark. Rafi, come here. Sit down. Tell me all the details. Is there vomiting also?" "Oh yes indeed, sir, and the serious pains." "That settles it. In
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manual, because by being there they ceased to be his experiences. What he had been told by his father or mother or had picked up from servants it was information of that sort that he found useful, and handed on as occasion offered to others. But he must not bring any disgrace on his children by some silly escapade. Imagine if it got about that he was not respectable! His professional position too must be considered, whatever Major Callendar thought. Aziz upheld the proprieties, though he did not invest them with any moral halo, and it was here that he chiefly differed from an Englishman. His conventions were social. There is no harm in deceiving society as long as she does not find you out, because it is only when she finds you out that you have harmed her; she is not like a friend or God, who are injured by the mere existence of unfaithfulness. Quite clear about this, he meditated what type of lie he should tell to get away to Calcutta, and had thought of a man there who could be trusted to send him a wire and a letter that he could show to Major Callendar, when the noise of wheels was heard in his compound. Someone had called to enquire. The thought of sympathy increased his fever, and with a sincere groan he wrapped himself in his quilt. "Aziz, my dear fellow, we are greatly concerned," said Hamidullah's voice. One, two, three, four bumps, as people sat down upon his bed. "When a doctor falls ill it is a serious matter," said the voice of Mr. Syed Mohammed, the assistant engineer. "When an engineer falls ill, it is equally important," said the voice of Mr. Haq, a police inspector. "Oh yes, we are all jolly important, our salaries prove it." "Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday afternoon," piped Rafi, the engineer's nephew. "Professor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?" Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. "Humbug!" exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle. "Yes, Rafi's the great man," said Hamidullah, rubbing it in. "Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. Speak up, Rafi." Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word "Diarrh a," but took courage as soon as it had been uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion shot up again in the breasts of his elders, though in a different direction. Could what was called diarrh a really be an early case of cholera? "If this is so, this is a very serious thing: this is scarcely the end of March. Why have I not been informed?" cried Aziz. "Dr. Panna Lal attends him, sir." "Oh yes, both Hindus; there we have it; they hang together like flies and keep everything dark. Rafi, come here. Sit down. Tell me all the details. Is there vomiting also?" "Oh yes indeed, sir, and the serious pains." "That settles it. In twenty-four hours he will be dead." Everybody looked and felt shocked, but Professor Godbole had diminished his appeal by linking himself with a co-religionist. He moved them less than when he had appeared as a suffering individual. Before long they began to condemn him as a source of infection. "All illness proceeds from Hindus," Mr. Haq said. Mr. Syed Mohammed had visited religious fairs, at Allahabad and at Ujjain, and described them with biting scorn. At Allahabad there was flowing water, which carried impurities away, but at Ujjain the little river Sipra was banked up, and thousands of bathers deposited their germs in the pool. He spoke with disgust of the hot sun, the cow-dung and marigold flowers, and the encampment of saddhus, some of whom strode stark naked through the streets. Asked what was the name of the chief idol at Ujjain, he replied that he did not know, he had disdained to enquire, he really could not waste his time over such trivialities. His outburst took some time, and in his excitement he fell into Punjabi (he came from that side) and was unintelligible. Aziz liked to hear his religion praised. It soothed the surface of his mind,
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that, the vague jollity that would culminate in voluptuousness. Yes, that was what he did want. How could it be managed? If Major Callendar had been an Indian, he would have remembered what young men are, and granted two or three days' leave to Calcutta without asking questions. But the Major assumed either that his subordinates were made of ice, or that they repaired to the Chandrapore bazaars disgusting ideas both. It was only Mr. Fielding who "Hassan!" The servant came running. "Look at those flies, brother;" and he pointed to the horrible mass that hung from the ceiling. The nucleus was a wire which had been inserted as a homage to electricity. Electricity had paid no attention, and a colony of eye-flies had come instead and blackened the coils with their bodies. "Huzoor, those are flies." "Good, good, they are, excellent, but why have I called you?" "To drive them elsewhere," said Hassan, after painful thought. "Driven elsewhere, they always return." "Huzoor." "You must make some arrangement against flies; that is why you are my servant," said Aziz gently. Hassan would call the little boy to borrow the step-ladder from Mahmoud Ali's house; he would order the cook to light the Primus stove and heat water; he would personally ascend the steps with a bucket in his arms, and dip the end of the coil into it. "Good, very good. Now what have you to do?" "Kill flies." "Good. Do it." Hassan withdrew, the plan almost lodged in his head, and began to look for the little boy. Not finding him, his steps grew slower, and he stole back to his post on the verandah, but did not go on testing his rupees, in case his master heard them clink. On twittered the Sunday bells; the East had returned to the East via the suburbs of England, and had become ridiculous during the detour. Aziz continued to think about beautiful women. His mind here was hard and direct, though not brutal. He had learnt all he needed concerning his own constitution many years ago, thanks to the social order into which he had been born, and when he came to study medicine he was repelled by the pedantry and fuss with which Europe tabulates the facts of sex. Science seemed to discuss everything from the wrong end. It didn't interpret his experiences when he found them in a German manual, because by being there they ceased to be his experiences. What he had been told by his father or mother or had picked up from servants it was information of that sort that he found useful, and handed on as occasion offered to others. But he must not bring any disgrace on his children by some silly escapade. Imagine if it got about that he was not respectable! His professional position too must be considered, whatever Major Callendar thought. Aziz upheld the proprieties, though he did not invest them with any moral halo, and it was here that he chiefly differed from an Englishman. His conventions were social. There is no harm in deceiving society as long as she does not find you out, because it is only when she finds you out that you have harmed her; she is not like a friend or God, who are injured by the mere existence of unfaithfulness. Quite clear about this, he meditated what type of lie he should tell to get away to Calcutta, and had thought of a man there who could be trusted to send him a wire and a letter that he could show to Major Callendar, when the noise of wheels was heard in his compound. Someone had called to enquire. The thought of sympathy increased his fever, and with a sincere groan he wrapped himself in his quilt. "Aziz, my dear fellow, we are greatly concerned," said Hamidullah's voice. One, two, three, four bumps, as people sat down upon his bed. "When a doctor falls ill it is a serious matter," said the voice of Mr. Syed Mohammed, the assistant engineer. "When an engineer falls ill, it is equally important," said the voice of Mr. Haq, a police inspector. "Oh yes, we are all jolly important, our salaries prove it." "Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday afternoon," piped Rafi, the engineer's nephew. "Professor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?" Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. "Humbug!" exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle. "Yes, Rafi's the great man," said Hamidullah, rubbing it in. "Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. Speak up, Rafi." Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word "Diarrh a," but took courage as soon as it had been uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion shot up again in the breasts of his elders, though in a different direction. Could what was called diarrh a really be an early case of cholera? "If this is so, this is a very serious thing: this is scarcely the end of March. Why have I not been informed?" cried Aziz. "Dr. Panna Lal attends him, sir." "Oh yes, both Hindus; there we have it; they hang together like flies and keep everything dark. Rafi, come here. Sit down. Tell me all the details. Is there vomiting also?" "Oh yes indeed, sir, and the serious pains." "That settles it. In twenty-four hours he will be dead." Everybody looked and felt shocked, but Professor Godbole had diminished his appeal by linking himself with a co-religionist. He moved them less than when he had appeared as a suffering individual. Before long they began to condemn him as a source of infection. "All illness proceeds from Hindus," Mr. Haq said. Mr. Syed Mohammed had visited religious fairs, at Allahabad and at Ujjain, and described them with biting scorn. At Allahabad there was flowing water, which carried impurities away, but at Ujjain the little river Sipra was banked up, and thousands of bathers deposited their germs in the pool. He spoke with disgust of the hot sun, the cow-dung and marigold flowers, and the encampment of saddhus, some of whom strode stark naked through the streets. Asked what was the name of the chief idol at Ujjain, he replied that he did not know, he had disdained to enquire, he really could not waste his time over such trivialities. His outburst took some time, and in his excitement he fell into Punjabi (he came from that side) and was unintelligible. Aziz liked to hear his religion praised. It soothed the surface of his mind, and allowed beautiful images to form beneath. When the engineer's noisy tirade was finished, he said, "That is exactly my own view." He held up his hand, palm outward, his eyes began to glow, his heart to fill with tenderness. Issuing still farther from his quilt, he recited a poem by Ghalib. It had no connection with anything that had gone before, but it came from his heart and spoke to theirs. They were overwhelmed by its pathos; pathos, they agreed, is the highest quality in art; a poem should touch the hearer with a sense of his own weakness, and should institute some comparison between mankind and flowers. The squalid bedroom grew quiet; the silly intrigues, the gossip, the shallow discontent were stilled, while words accepted as immortal filled the indifferent air. Not as a call to battle, but as a calm assurance came the feeling that India was one; Moslem; always had been; an assurance that lasted until they looked out of the door. Whatever Ghalib had felt, he had anyhow lived in India, and this consolidated it for them: he had gone with his own tulips and roses, but tulips and roses do not go. And the sister kingdoms of the north Arabia, Persia, Ferghana, Turkestan stretched out their hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad, and greeted ridiculous Chandrapore, where every street and house was divided against itself, and told her that she was a continent and a unity. Of the company, only Hamidullah had any comprehension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because literature had not been divorced from their civilization. The police inspector, for instance, did not feel that Aziz had degraded himself by reciting, nor break into the cheery guffaw with which an Englishman averts the infection of beauty. He just sat with his mind empty, and when his thoughts, which were mainly ignoble, flowed back into it they had a pleasant freshness. The poem had done no "good" to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking about women again, but in a different
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offered to others. But he must not bring any disgrace on his children by some silly escapade. Imagine if it got about that he was not respectable! His professional position too must be considered, whatever Major Callendar thought. Aziz upheld the proprieties, though he did not invest them with any moral halo, and it was here that he chiefly differed from an Englishman. His conventions were social. There is no harm in deceiving society as long as she does not find you out, because it is only when she finds you out that you have harmed her; she is not like a friend or God, who are injured by the mere existence of unfaithfulness. Quite clear about this, he meditated what type of lie he should tell to get away to Calcutta, and had thought of a man there who could be trusted to send him a wire and a letter that he could show to Major Callendar, when the noise of wheels was heard in his compound. Someone had called to enquire. The thought of sympathy increased his fever, and with a sincere groan he wrapped himself in his quilt. "Aziz, my dear fellow, we are greatly concerned," said Hamidullah's voice. One, two, three, four bumps, as people sat down upon his bed. "When a doctor falls ill it is a serious matter," said the voice of Mr. Syed Mohammed, the assistant engineer. "When an engineer falls ill, it is equally important," said the voice of Mr. Haq, a police inspector. "Oh yes, we are all jolly important, our salaries prove it." "Dr. Aziz took tea with our Principal last Thursday afternoon," piped Rafi, the engineer's nephew. "Professor Godbole, who also attended, has sickened too, which seems rather a curious thing, sir, does it not?" Flames of suspicion leapt up in the breast of each man. "Humbug!" exclaimed Hamidullah, in authoritative tones, quenching them. "Humbug, most certainly," echoed the others, ashamed of themselves. The wicked schoolboy, having failed to start a scandal, lost confidence and stood up with his back to the wall. "Is Professor Godbole ill?" enquired Aziz, penetrated by the news. "I am sincerely sorry."<|quote|>Intelligent and compassionate, his face peeped out of the bright crimson folds of the quilt.</|quote|>"How do you do, Mr. Syed Mohammed, Mr. Haq? How very kind of you to enquire after my health! How do you do, Hamidullah? But you bring me bad news. What is wrong with him, the excellent fellow?" "Why don't you answer, Rafi? You're the great authority," said his uncle. "Yes, Rafi's the great man," said Hamidullah, rubbing it in. "Rafi is the Sherlock Holmes of Chandrapore. Speak up, Rafi." Less than the dust, the schoolboy murmured the word "Diarrh a," but took courage as soon as it had been uttered, for it improved his position. Flames of suspicion shot up again in the breasts of his elders, though in a different direction. Could what was called diarrh a really be an early case of cholera? "If this is so, this is a very serious thing: this is scarcely the end of March. Why have I not been informed?" cried Aziz. "Dr. Panna Lal attends him, sir." "Oh yes, both Hindus; there we have it; they hang together like flies and keep everything dark. Rafi, come here. Sit down. Tell me all the details. Is there vomiting also?" "Oh yes indeed, sir, and the serious pains." "That settles it. In twenty-four hours he will be dead." Everybody looked and felt shocked, but Professor Godbole had diminished his appeal by linking himself with a co-religionist. He moved them less than when he had appeared as a suffering individual. Before long they began to condemn him as a source of infection. "All illness proceeds from Hindus," Mr. Haq said. Mr. Syed Mohammed had visited religious fairs, at Allahabad and at Ujjain, and described them with biting scorn. At Allahabad there was flowing water, which carried impurities away, but at Ujjain the little river Sipra was banked up, and thousands of bathers deposited their germs in the pool. He spoke with disgust of the hot sun, the cow-dung and marigold flowers, and the encampment of saddhus, some of whom strode stark naked through the streets. Asked what was the name of the chief idol at Ujjain, he replied that he did not know, he had disdained to enquire, he really could not waste his time over such trivialities. His outburst took some time, and in his excitement he fell into Punjabi (he came from that side) and was unintelligible. Aziz liked to hear his religion praised. It soothed the surface of his mind, and allowed beautiful images to form beneath. When the engineer's noisy tirade was finished, he said, "That is exactly my own view." He held up
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A Passage To India
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"No, no, no!"
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Monks
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do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by
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your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!"
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from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned
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received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook
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the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that," said Mr.
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it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant." "And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I _did not_," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give
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short pause, "I went, when all was over, to the scene of his I will use the term the world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him of his guilty love, resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child should find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell." Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph. "When your brother," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's chair, "When your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy" "What?" cried Monks. "By me," said Mr. Brownlow. "I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history" "Why not?" asked Monks hastily. "Because you know it well." "I!" "Denial to me is vain," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I shall show you that I know more than that." "You you can't prove anything against me," stammered Monks. "I defy you to do it!" "We shall see," returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. "I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother's death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant." "And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I _did not_," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. "You you will be secret with me?" "I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who _may_ have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?" "Drive straight to the office and you will be in time," replied Mr. Losberne. "I will remain here." The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable. CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by
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of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I _did not_," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!"<|quote|>"No, no, no!"</|quote|>returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing
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Oliver Twist
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"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"
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Thomas Gradgrind
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plain to me, he's off."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"Ay! I mean," said Mr.
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see him now. It's pretty plain to me, he's off."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"Ay! I mean," said Mr. Childers, with a nod, "that
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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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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
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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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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
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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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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
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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. "Missed his tip." "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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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.
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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. "Missed his tip." "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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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 much of you might bring it down!" Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind. "Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her." "Pray," said Mr. Gradgrind, "why will she never believe it of him?" "Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her," said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary's company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback. "Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her," said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. "Now, he leaves her without anything to take to." "It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion," returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. "_I_ never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old." "Oh! Indeed?" said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. "I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to" "Idleness," Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. "No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!" "Her father
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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. "Missed his tip." "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."<|quote|>"Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?"</|quote|>"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
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Hard Times
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I say,
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No speaker
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and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped
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us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the
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to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like
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is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans
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in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear
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next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We are all curious. "But why did you say you did it? It wasn't
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agree. "Have you been dreaming then?" she asks. "Perhaps----" I evade. The interrogation starts again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, and the more wonderful and sweet she is the less am I able to tell her what I want. I am lifted up into bed again. That will be all right. As soon as she goes I must try to climb down again. If she were an old woman, it might be easier to say what a man wants, but she is so very young, at the most twenty-five, it can't be done, I cannot possibly tell her. Then Albert comes to my rescue, he is not bashful, it makes no difference to him who is upset. He calls to the sister. She turns round. "Sister, he wants----" but no more does Albert know how to express it modestly and decently. Out there we say it in a single word, but here, to such a lady---- All at once he remembers his school days and finishes hastily: "He wants to leave the room, sister." "Ah!" says the sister, "but he shouldn't climb out of his bed with his plaster bandage. What do you want then?" she says, turning to me. I am in mortal terror at this new turn, for I haven't any idea what the things are called professionally. She comes to my help. "Little or big?" This shocking business! I sweat like a pig and say shyly: "Well, only quite a little one----" At any rate, it produces the effect. I get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask. "To Cologne." "Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have won. * * At noon the hospital inspector arrives and abuses us. He threatens us with clink and all the rest of it. But a hospital inspector is just the same as a commissariat inspector, or any one else who wears a long dagger and shoulder straps, but is really a clerk, and is never considered even by a recruit as a real officer. So we let him talk. What can they do to us, anyway---- "Who threw the bottle?" he asks. Before I can think whether I should report myself, someone says: "I did." A man with a bristling beard sits up. Everyone is excited; why should he report himself? "You?" "Yes. I was annoyed because we were waked up unnecessarily and lost my senses so that I did not know what I was doing." He talks like a book. "What is your name?" "Reinforcement-Reservist Josef Hamacher." The inspector departs. We are all curious. "But why did you say you did it? It wasn't you at all!" He grins. "That doesn't matter. I have a shooting licence." Then, of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting licence can do just whatever he pleases. "Yes," he explains, "I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I've had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me." "I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another." We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything. Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away. The bandages are stuck fast. We bellow like steers. * * There are eight men in our room. Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;--a severe lung wound. Franz Wächter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn't look too bad at first. But the third night he calls out to us, telling us to ring, he thinks he has a hæmorrhage. I ring loudly. The night sister does not come. We have been making rather heavy demands on her during the night, because we have all been freshly bandaged, and so have a good deal of pain. One wants his leg placed so, another so, a third wants water, a fourth wants her to shake up his pillow;--in the end the buxom old body grumbled bad temperedly and slammed the doors. Now no doubt she thinks it is something of the same sort and so she is not coming. We wait. Then Franz says: "Ring again." I do so. Still she does not put in an appearance. In our wing there is only one night sister, perhaps she has something to do in one of the other rooms. "Franz, are you quite sure you are bleeding?" I ask. "Otherwise we shall be getting cursed again." "The bandage is wet. Can't anybody make a light?" That cannot be done either. The switch is by the door and none of us can stand up. I hold my thumb against the button of the bell till it becomes numb. Perhaps the sister has fallen asleep. They certainly have a great deal to do and are all overworked day after day. And added to that is the everlasting
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get a bottle. After a few hours I am no longer the only one, and by morning we are quite accustomed to it and ask for what we want without any false modesty. The train travels slowly. Sometimes it halts and the dead are unloaded. It halts often. Albert is feverish. I feel miserable and have a good deal of pain, but the worst of it is that apparently there are still lice under the plaster bandage. They itch terribly, and I cannot scratch myself. We sleep through the days. The country glides quietly past the window. The third night we reach Herbstal. I hear from the sister that Albert is to be put off at the next station because of his fever. "How far does the train go?" I ask. "To Cologne." "Albert," I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's next round I hold my breath and press it up into my head. My face swells and turns red. She stops. "Are you in pain?" "Yes," I groan, "all of a sudden." She gives me a thermometer and goes on. I would not have been under Kat's tuition if I did not know what to do now. These army thermometers are not made for old soldiers. All one has to do is to drive the quicksilver up and then it stays there without falling again. I stick the thermometer under my arm at a slant, and flip it steadily with my forefinger. Then I give it a shake. I send it up to 100.2°. But that is not enough. A match held cautiously near to it brings it up to 101.6°. As the sister comes back, I blow myself out, breathe in short gasps, goggle at her with vacant eyes, toss about restlessly, and mutter in a whisper: "I can't bear it any longer----" She notes me down on a slip of paper. I know perfectly well my plaster bandage will not be re-opened if it can be avoided. Albert and I are put off together. * * We are in the same room in a Catholic Hospital. That is a piece of luck, the Catholic infirmaries are noted for their good treatment and good food. The hospital has been filled up from our train, there are a great many bad cases amongst them. We do not get examined to-day because there are too few surgeons. The flat trolleys with the rubber wheels pass continually along the corridor, and always with someone stretched at full length upon them. A damnable position, stretched out at full length like that;--the only time it is good is when one is asleep. The night is very disturbed. No one can sleep. Toward morning we doze a little. I wake up just as it grows light. The door stands open and I hear voices from the corridor. The others wake up too. One fellow, who has been there a couple of days already explains it to us: "Up here in the corridor every morning the sisters say prayers. They call it Morning Devotion. And so that you can get your share, they leave the door open." No doubt it is well meant, but it gives us aches in our head and bones. "Such an absurdity!"<|quote|>I say,</|quote|>"just when a man dropped off to sleep." "All the light cases are up here, that's why they do it here," he replies. Albert groans. I get furious and call out: "Be quiet out there!" A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. "Shut the door, will you, sister?" says someone. "We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open," she responds. "But we want to go on sleeping----" "Prayer is better than sleep," she stands there and smiles innocently. "And it is seven o'clock already." Albert groans again. "Shut the door," I snort. She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. "But we are saying prayers for you too." "Shut the door, anyway." She disappears leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds. I feel savage, and say: "I'm going to count up to three. If it doesn't stop before then I'll let something fly." "Me, too," says another. I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert. "Shut the door!" we yell. They withdraw. The little one who came first is the last to go. "Heathen," she chirps, but shuts the door all the same. We have
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"
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Henry Crawford
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be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend
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wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in
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delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is
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plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's
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hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away;
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to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram. Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
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the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton. The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye. Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof. The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram. Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister. With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with her wishes? Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence. Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize. CHAPTER XXI Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened it was all sameness
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youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof. The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.<|quote|>"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"</|quote|>said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice." It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is all over entirely at an end" (looking significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all
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Mansfield Park
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"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"
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Captain
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rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he
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the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it
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In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook?
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your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the
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the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not
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on Don's shoulder to steady himself, worn out as he was with his long tramp, when it seemed to Don that he felt the cold, slimy touch of a shark gliding up against his bare legs, and with a start of horror he sprang sidewise, with the result that the captain, who was bearing down upon the lad's shoulder, fell sidewise into the sea. "You clumsy idiot!" cried the captain; and forgetting himself in his annoyance, worn out as he was, and irritable from his great exertions, he caught at Don's extended hand, and then as he rose struck the boy a heavy blow with his doubled fist right in the chest. Don staggered heavily, fell into the water, and then struggled up drenched as the captain was before him. Then, forgetting in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true
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as the boathook seemed to plough through the sea, which rapidly grew shallower. Onward it came, nearer and nearer, till Jem gave a warning shout, and placed one foot on the side ready to plunge overboard. "Don't do that, Jem; it's certain death!" cried Don. "Don't you stop, Mas' Don; that's certain death, too. Let's swim ashore. Now, my lad, now, now. Don't stop a fellow; don't!" Jem shouted these words excitedly, as Don clung to him and held him back, gazing wildly all the time at the disturbed water, as the great fish swiftly approached, till, just as it was within a few yards, the shallowness of the water seemed to startle it, making it give quite a bound showing half its length, and then diving down with a kind of wallow, after which the occupants of the boat saw the wooden pole go trailing along the surface, till once more it was snatched, as it were, out of sight. "Don't seem as if he's going to shake it out," said Jem. "You must have driven the spike in right over the hook, and it acts like a barb. What a blow you must have given!" "Well, I hit as hard as I could," said Jem. "He was coming at me. Can you see it now?" "No." "Keep a sharp look-out; it's sure to come up sometime." The sharp look-out was kept; but they did not see the boathook again, though they watched patiently till nearly sundown, when a hail came from the woods; and as the boat-keepers got up the grapnel and ran the light vessel in shore, the captain and his men appeared slowly to their left, and came down as if utterly wearied out. "Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight." Jaded, their clothes torn in all directions, coated with mud, and with their faces smeared and scored, the blood stains on their cheeks and hands gave the returning party all the appearance of those who had been engaged in a fight for life. But it had only been an encounter with the terrible thorns and spines of the wild land they had explored, and the wounds, much as they had bled, were but skin deep. The boat-keepers leaped out, and ran the stern in as close as they could, and the captain was in the act of stepping in, placing a hand on Don's shoulder to steady himself, worn out as he was with his long tramp, when it seemed to Don that he felt the cold, slimy touch of a shark gliding up against his bare legs, and with a start of horror he sprang sidewise, with the result that the captain, who was bearing down upon the lad's shoulder, fell sidewise into the sea. "You clumsy idiot!" cried the captain; and forgetting himself in his annoyance, worn out as he was, and irritable from his great exertions, he caught at Don's extended hand, and then as he rose struck the boy a heavy blow with his doubled fist right in the chest. Don staggered heavily, fell into the water, and then struggled up drenched as the captain was before him. Then, forgetting in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death." "Does it, sir?" "Does it, sir! Why, goodness me, my lad, you must be half mad." "People are sometimes, sir, when they are hit." "Yes, that's true enough; but you must master your temper. Save all that sort of thing up till you fight the French, and then you will be allowed to grow quite mad if you like. Now once more, about that boathook. You did not lose it?" "Yes, sir; we did lose it." "Ah, I thought so." "Because the great fish carried it off." "Humph! Well, go and get yourself dry. If you are lucky, you will hear no more about this, only have the cost of the boathook deducted out of your pay, and perhaps the captain will have forgotten all about your conduct by to-morrow." "What did he say to you?" said Jem, as Don went below. Don told him. "Pay for the boathook?" said Jem. "Well, I'll do that, my lad. But what did he say--the skipper would forget it by to-morrow?" "Yes, Jem." "I hope he will." "But I can't forget that he hit me," said Don sternly. "Now, now, Mas' Don, you mustn't speak like that." "And you must not speak like that, Jem,--_Master Don_. You'll have some of the men hear you." "Well, I'll mind; but you mustn't think any more about that, my lad. He's captain, and can do as he likes. You were going to hit him, weren't you?" "Yes, Jem, I'm afraid I was. I always feel like that if I'm hurt." "But you mustn't now you're a sailor. Say, my lad, things looks rather ugly, somehow. Think the captain will punish you?" "We shall see, Jem." "But hadn't we better--I say, my lad," he whispered, "we could swim ashore." "And the shark?" "Ugh! I forgot him. Well, take a boat, and get right away, for I've been thinking, Mas' Don, it's a very horrid thing to have hit your officer." "But I didn't hit him. He hit me." "But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away." Don shook his head. "Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad." "Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors." "But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing." "N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly. "And for being hit as the captain hit you." "N-no, Jem; but--but somehow--There, don't say any
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him. Then, forgetting in his hot rage everything about their relative positions and the difference in age, the boy made for the tall, frowning officer before him, and would have struck him in his blind wrath but for Bosun Jones, who had seen everything, and now hastily interposed. "No, no, my boy," he said. "Keep back, you are too wet to do any good. Allow me, sir." Don shrank back, realising the heinousness of the social sin he was about to commit, and a dead silence fell on the group, the men staring wonderingly as the captain accepted Bosun Jones' help, stepped into the boat, and stood wringing himself. "Why, the young dog was going to strike me!" cried the captain. "Surely not, sir," said the boatswain hastily. "Only going to help you, sir." "Help me! I believe he was going to hit out. Here, sir, what made you start away like that?" "He thought it was a shark, sir," cried Jem. "One's been about the boat all the aft'noon." "Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the captain sternly. "Here, you boy, what made you flinch!" "Thought I felt the shark touch me, sir," said Don, sullenly. "Oh, then I am to be thrown into the water because you are a cowardly young idiot," cried the captain. "I'll talk to you to-morrow. In with you, my lads, and give way." "There's no boathook!" cried the coxswain; and on the keepers being called to account, their story was received with such manifest doubt, that Don writhed and sat sullenly in his place in the boat, as it was rowed back to the sloop.<|quote|>"Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook,"</|quote|>said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is reported to-morrow morning. I believe the young scoundrel was going to strike me." "But you struck him first," said the boatswain to himself, as he saw the captain descend. "Hot-headed young rascal. Ah! Here, Lavington, what about that boathook? Let's have the simple truth. One of the Maoris stole it, and you were afraid to speak?" "I was not afraid to speak the truth, sir," said Don; "and I told it." "But that's such a wild story. Your messmate could not have driven it into a shark over the hook." "I don't know whether it was driven in over the hook, sir," replied Don; "but it stuck in the fish's back and would not come out." The boatswain looked at him thoughtfully, while Don waited to hear his words. "Look here, Lavington," he said, "I liked you, my lad, from the first, and I should be sorry for you to be in serious trouble. I have been your friend, have I not?" "I can't see much friendship in dragging one away from home," said Don, coldly. "I had my duty to do, young man, and a sailor is not allowed to ask questions as to what's right or wrong." "But I was treated like a criminal," said Don. "You were treated far better than pressed men are as a rule especially those who try to break away. But I can't argue that with you. You and your companion are king's men now, or king's boys, and have to do your duty. Let's come back to to-day's work. The captain's offended, and I want to save you from trouble if I can." "It's very kind of you, sir," said Don. "Now tell me this. Do you know what you were going to do when the captain knocked you backwards?" Don was silent. "Well, I'll tell you," said the boatswain. "You were going to strike him again. That's the truth, is it not?" Don remained silent. "It is the truth. Well, have you any idea of what a bit of madness that would have been here?" Don shook his head. "Why, my good lad, you could not commit a greater crime. It means death."
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Don Lavington
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"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"
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Adela Quested
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the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out
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." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were
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have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right
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your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a
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was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely." And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one
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a coincidence that they've all let you down." "I like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend," Mrs. Moore interposed. "When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but no white man would have done it." "What animal?" "Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar road. Adela thinks it was a hyena." "An accident?" she cried. "Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly." Mrs. Moore shivered, "A ghost!" But the idea of a ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorbed into the part of the mind that seldom speaks. "Yes, nothing criminal," Ronny summed up, "but there's the native, and there's one of the reasons why we don't admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles me. . . . But I must get on with my work. Krishna!" Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely." And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated, "If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson
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she could not speak as enthusiastically of wedlock or of anything as she should have done. Ronny was suited, now she must go home and help the others, if they wished. She was past marrying herself, even unhappily; her function was to help others, her reward to be informed that she was sympathetic. Elderly ladies must not expect more than this. They dined alone. There was much pleasant and affectionate talk about the future. Later on they spoke of passing events, and Ronny reviewed and recounted the day from his own point of view. It was a different day from the women's, because while they had enjoyed themselves or thought, he had worked. Mohurram was approaching, and as usual the Chandrapore Mohammedans were building paper towers of a size too large to pass under the branches of a certain pepul tree. One knew what happened next; the tower stuck, a Mohammedan climbed up the pepul and cut the branch off, the Hindus protested, there was a religious riot, and Heaven knew what, with perhaps the troops sent for. There had been deputations and conciliation committees under the auspices of Turton, and all the normal work of Chandrapore had been hung up. Should the procession take another route, or should the towers be shorter? The Mohammedans offered the former, the Hindus insisted on the latter. The Collector had favoured the Hindus, until he suspected that they had artificially bent the tree nearer the ground. They said it sagged naturally. Measurements, plans, an official visit to the spot. But Ronny had not disliked his day, for it proved that the British were necessary to India; there would certainly have been bloodshed without them. His voice grew complacent again; he was here not to be pleasant but to keep the peace, and now that Adela had promised to be his wife, she was sure to understand. "What does our old gentleman of the car think?" she asked, and her negligent tone was exactly what he desired. "Our old gentleman is helpful and sound, as he always is over public affairs. You've seen in him our show Indian." "Have I really?" "I'm afraid so. Incredible, aren't they, even the best of them? They're all they all forget their back collar studs sooner or later. You've had to do with three sets of Indians to-day, the Bhattacharyas, Aziz, and this chap, and it really isn't a coincidence that they've all let you down." "I like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend," Mrs. Moore interposed. "When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but no white man would have done it." "What animal?" "Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar road. Adela thinks it was a hyena." "An accident?" she cried. "Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly." Mrs. Moore shivered, "A ghost!" But the idea of a ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorbed into the part of the mind that seldom speaks. "Yes, nothing criminal," Ronny summed up, "but there's the native, and there's one of the reasons why we don't admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles me. . . . But I must get on with my work. Krishna!" Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely." And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated, "If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God. Only Aziz held aloof, because a personal experience restrained him: was it not by despising ghosts that he had come to know Mrs. Moore? "You know, Nureddin," he whispered to the grandson an effeminate youth whom he seldom met, always liked, and invariably forgot "you know, my dear fellow, we Moslems simply must get rid of these superstitions, or India will never advance. How long must I hear of the savage pig upon the Marabar Road?" Nureddin looked down. Aziz continued: "Your grandfather belongs to another generation, and I respect and love the old gentleman, as you know. I say nothing against him, only that it is wrong for us, because we are young. I want you to promise me Nureddin, are you listening? not to believe in Evil Spirits, and if I die (for my health grows very weak) to bring up my three children to disbelieve in them too." Nureddin smiled, and a suitable answer rose to his pretty lips, but before he could make it the car arrived, and his grandfather took him away. The game of Patience up in the civil lines went on longer than this. Mrs. Moore continued to murmur "Red ten on a black knave," Miss Quested to assist her, and to intersperse among the intricacies of the play details about the hyena, the engagement, the Maharani of Mudkul, the Bhattacharyas, and the day generally, whose rough desiccated surface acquired as it receded a definite outline, as India itself might, could it be viewed from the moon. Presently the players went to bed, but not before other people had woken up elsewhere, people whose emotions they could not share, and whose existence they ignored. Never tranquil, never perfectly dark, the night wore itself away, distinguished from other nights by two or three blasts of wind, which seemed to fall perpendicularly out of the sky and to bounce back into it, hard and compact, leaving no freshness behind them: the hot weather was approaching. CHAPTER IX Aziz fell ill as he foretold slightly ill. Three days later he lay abed in his bungalow, pretending to be very ill. It was a touch of fever, which he would have neglected if there was anything important at the hospital. Now and then he groaned and thought he should die, but did not think so for long, and a very little diverted him. It was Sunday, always an equivocal day in the East, and an excuse for slacking. He could hear church bells as he drowsed, both from the civil station and from the missionaries out beyond the slaughter
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always is over public affairs. You've seen in him our show Indian." "Have I really?" "I'm afraid so. Incredible, aren't they, even the best of them? They're all they all forget their back collar studs sooner or later. You've had to do with three sets of Indians to-day, the Bhattacharyas, Aziz, and this chap, and it really isn't a coincidence that they've all let you down." "I like Aziz, Aziz is my real friend," Mrs. Moore interposed. "When the animal runs into us the Nawab loses his head, deserts his unfortunate chauffeur, intrudes upon Miss Derek . . . no great crimes, no great crimes, but no white man would have done it." "What animal?" "Oh, we had a small accident on the Marabar road. Adela thinks it was a hyena." "An accident?" she cried. "Nothing; no one hurt. Our excellent host awoke much rattled from his dreams, appeared to think it was our fault, and chanted exactly, exactly." Mrs. Moore shivered, "A ghost!" But the idea of a ghost scarcely passed her lips. The young people did not take it up, being occupied with their own outlooks, and deprived of support it perished, or was reabsorbed into the part of the mind that seldom speaks. "Yes, nothing criminal," Ronny summed up, "but there's the native, and there's one of the reasons why we don't admit him to our clubs, and how a decent girl like Miss Derek can take service under natives puzzles me. . . . But I must get on with my work. Krishna!" Krishna was the peon who should have brought the files from his office. He had not turned up, and a terrific row ensued. Ronny stormed, shouted, howled, and only the experienced observer could tell that he was not angry, did not much want the files, and only made a row because it was the custom. Servants, quite understanding, ran slowly in circles, carrying hurricane lamps. Krishna the earth, Krishna the stars replied, until the Englishman was appeased by their echoes, fined the absent peon eight annas, and sat down to his arrears in the next room. "Will you play Patience with your future mother-in-law, dear Adela, or does it seem too tame?" "I should like to I don't feel a bit excited I'm just glad it's settled up at last, but I'm not conscious of vast changes. We are all three the same people still." "That's much the best feeling to have." She dealt out the first row of "demon." "I suppose so," said the girl thoughtfully. "I feared at Mr. Fielding's that it might be settled the other way . . . black knave on a red queen. . . ." They chatted gently about the game. Presently Adela said:<|quote|>"You heard me tell Aziz and Godbole I wasn't stopping in their country. I didn't mean it, so why did I say it? I feel I haven't been frank enough, attentive enough, or something. It's as if I got everything out of proportion. You have been so very good to me, and I meant to be good when I sailed, but somehow I haven't been. . . . Mrs. Moore, if one isn't absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?"</|quote|>She continued to lay out her cards. The words were obscure, but she understood the uneasiness that produced them. She had experienced it twice herself, during her own engagements this vague contrition and doubt. All had come right enough afterwards and doubtless would this time marriage makes most things right enough. "I wouldn't worry," she said. "It's partly the odd surroundings; you and I keep on attending to trifles instead of what's important; we are what the people here call new.'" "You mean that my bothers are mixed up with India?" "India's" She stopped. "What made you call it a ghost?" "Call what a ghost?" "The animal thing that hit us. Didn't you say Oh, a ghost,' in passing." "I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying." "It was probably a hyena, as a matter of fact." "Ah, very likely." And they went on with their Patience. Down in Chandrapore the Nawab Bahadur waited for his car. He sat behind his town house (a small unfurnished building which he rarely entered) in the midst of the little court that always improvises itself round Indians of position. As if turbans were the natural product of darkness a fresh one would occasionally froth to the front, incline itself towards him, and retire. He was preoccupied, his diction was appropriate to a religious subject. Nine years previously, when first he had had a car, he had driven it over a drunken man and killed him, and the man had been waiting for him ever since. The Nawab Bahadur was innocent before God and the Law, he had paid double the compensation necessary; but it was no use, the man continued to wait in an unspeakable form, close to the scene of his death. None of the English people knew of this, nor did the chauffeur; it was a racial secret communicable more by blood than speech. He spoke now in horror of the particular circumstances; he had led others into danger, he had risked the lives of two innocent and honoured guests. He repeated, "If I had been killed, what matter? it must happen sometime; but they who trusted me" The company shuddered and invoked the mercy of God.
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A Passage To India
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"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."
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William Rodney
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William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy
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be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement
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"Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
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be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded. "Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear
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confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded. "Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact
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it was considerably more damning to be seen out of doors than surprised within. They were so much at the mercy of bells and doors that they could hardly talk of Macaulay with any conviction, and William preferred to defer the second act of his tragedy until another day. Under these circumstances Cassandra showed herself at her best. She sympathized with William s anxieties and did her utmost to share them; but still, to be alone together, to be running risks together, to be partners in the wonderful conspiracy, was to her so enthralling that she was always forgetting discretion, breaking out into exclamations and admirations which finally made William believe that, although deplorable and upsetting, the situation was not without its sweetness. When the door did open, he started, but braved the forthcoming revelation. It was not Mrs. Milvain, however, but Katharine herself who entered, closely followed by Ralph Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded. "Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries. But, however they differed when looked at separately, they shared the same huge, lovable nature in the bulk, which murmured and swayed and quivered all the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of it, slowly
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dictionary, as if it were a film upon the deep prospects that revealed themselves to her kindling and brooding eyes. She rose once, and going to the bookcase, took out her father s Greek dictionary and spread the sacred pages of symbols and figures before her. She smoothed the sheets with a mixture of affectionate amusement and hope. Would other eyes look on them with her one day? The thought, long intolerable, was now just bearable. She was quite unaware of the anxiety with which her movements were watched and her expression scanned. Cassandra was careful not to be caught looking at her, and their conversation was so prosaic that were it not for certain jolts and jerks between the sentences, as if the mind were kept with difficulty to the rails, Mrs. Milvain herself could have detected nothing of a suspicious nature in what she overheard. William, when he came in late that afternoon and found Cassandra alone, had a very serious piece of news to impart. He had just passed Katharine in the street and she had failed to recognize him. "That doesn t matter with me, of course, but suppose it happened with somebody else? What would they think? They would suspect something merely from her expression. She looked she looked" he hesitated "like some one walking in her sleep." To Cassandra the significant thing was that Katharine had gone out without telling her, and she interpreted this to mean that she had gone out to meet Ralph Denham. But to her surprise William drew no comfort from this probability. "Once throw conventions aside," he began, "once do the things that people don t do" and the fact that you are going to meet a young man is no longer proof of anything, except, indeed, that people will talk. Cassandra saw, not without a pang of jealousy, that he was extremely solicitous that people should not talk about Katharine, as if his interest in her were still proprietary rather than friendly. As they were both ignorant of Ralph s visit the night before they had not that reason to comfort themselves with the thought that matters were hastening to a crisis. These absences of Katharine s, moreover, left them exposed to interruptions which almost destroyed their pleasure in being alone together. The rainy evening made it impossible to go out; and, indeed, according to William s code, it was considerably more damning to be seen out of doors than surprised within. They were so much at the mercy of bells and doors that they could hardly talk of Macaulay with any conviction, and William preferred to defer the second act of his tragedy until another day. Under these circumstances Cassandra showed herself at her best. She sympathized with William s anxieties and did her utmost to share them; but still, to be alone together, to be running risks together, to be partners in the wonderful conspiracy, was to her so enthralling that she was always forgetting discretion, breaking out into exclamations and admirations which finally made William believe that, although deplorable and upsetting, the situation was not without its sweetness. When the door did open, he started, but braved the forthcoming revelation. It was not Mrs. Milvain, however, but Katharine herself who entered, closely followed by Ralph Denham. With a set expression which showed what an effort she was making, Katharine encountered their eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded. "Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries. But, however they differed when looked at separately, they shared the same huge, lovable nature in the bulk, which murmured and swayed and quivered all the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of it, slowly laughed and reluctantly left off laughing, and applauded with a helter-skelter generosity which sometimes became unanimous and overwhelming. Once William saw Katharine leaning forward and clapping her hands with an abandonment that startled him. Her laugh rang out with the laughter of the audience. For a second he was puzzled, as if this laughter disclosed something that he had never suspected in her. But then Cassandra s face caught his eye, gazing with astonishment at the buffoon, not laughing, too deeply intent and surprised to laugh at what she saw, and for some moments he watched her as if she were a child. The performance came to an end, the illusion dying out first here and then there, as some rose to put on their coats, others stood upright to salute "God Save the King," the musicians folded their music and encased their instruments, and the lights sank one by one until the house was empty, silent, and full of great shadows. Looking back over her shoulder as she followed Ralph through the swing doors, Cassandra marveled to see how the stage was already entirely without romance. But, she wondered, did they really cover all the seats in brown holland every night? The success of this entertainment was such that before they separated another expedition had been planned for the next day. The next day was Saturday; therefore both William and Ralph were free to devote the whole afternoon to an expedition to Greenwich, which Cassandra had never seen, and Katharine confused with Dulwich. On this occasion Ralph was their guide. He brought them without accident to Greenwich. What exigencies of state or fantasies of imagination first gave birth to the cluster of pleasant places by which London is surrounded is matter of indifference now that they have adapted themselves so admirably to the needs of people between the ages of twenty and thirty with Saturday afternoons to spend. Indeed, if ghosts have any interest in the affections of those who succeed them they must reap their richest harvests when the fine weather comes again and the lovers, the sightseers, and the holiday-makers pour themselves out of trains and omnibuses into their old pleasure-grounds. It is true that they go, for the most part, unthanked by name, although upon this occasion William was ready to give such discriminating praise as the dead architects and painters received seldom in the course
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eyes, and saying, "We re not going to interrupt you," she led Denham behind the curtain which hung in front of the room with the relics. This refuge was none of her willing, but confronted with wet pavements and only some belated museum or Tube station for shelter, she was forced, for Ralph s sake, to face the discomforts of her own house. Under the street lamps she had thought him looking both tired and strained. Thus separated, the two couples remained occupied for some time with their own affairs. Only the lowest murmurs penetrated from one section of the room to the other. At length the maid came in to bring a message that Mr. Hilbery would not be home for dinner. It was true that there was no need that Katharine should be informed, but William began to inquire Cassandra s opinion in such a way as to show that, with or without reason, he wished very much to speak to her. From motives of her own Cassandra dissuaded him. "But don t you think it s a little unsociable?" he hazarded. "Why not do something amusing? go to the play, for instance? Why not ask Katharine and Ralph, eh?" The coupling of their names in this manner caused Cassandra s heart to leap with pleasure. "Don t you think they must be ?" she began, but William hastily took her up.<|quote|>"Oh, I know nothing about that. I only thought we might amuse ourselves, as your uncle s out."</|quote|>He proceeded on his embassy with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment which caused him to turn aside with his hand on the curtain, and to examine intently for several moments the portrait of a lady, optimistically said by Mrs. Hilbery to be an early work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then, with some unnecessary fumbling, he drew aside the curtain, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, repeated his message and suggested that they should all spend the evening at the play. Katharine accepted the suggestion with such cordiality that it was strange to find her of no clear mind as to the precise spectacle she wished to see. She left the choice entirely to Ralph and William, who, taking counsel fraternally over an evening paper, found themselves in agreement as to the merits of a music-hall. This being arranged, everything else followed easily and enthusiastically. Cassandra had never been to a music-hall. Katharine instructed her in the peculiar delights of an entertainment where Polar bears follow directly upon ladies in full evening dress, and the stage is alternately a garden of mystery, a milliner s band-box, and a fried-fish shop in the Mile End Road. Whatever the exact nature of the program that night, it fulfilled the highest purposes of dramatic art, so far, at least, as four of the audience were concerned. No doubt the actors and the authors would have been surprised to learn in what shape their efforts reached those particular eyes and ears; but they could not have denied that the effect as a whole was tremendous. The hall resounded with brass and strings, alternately of enormous pomp and majesty, and then of sweetest lamentation. The reds and creams of the background, the lyres and harps and urns and skulls, the protuberances of plaster, the fringes of scarlet plush, the sinking and blazing of innumerable electric lights, could scarcely have been surpassed for decorative effect by any craftsman of the ancient or modern world. Then there was the audience itself, bare-shouldered, tufted and garlanded in the stalls, decorous but festal in the balconies, and frankly fit for daylight and street life in the galleries. But, however they differed when looked at separately, they shared the same huge, lovable nature in the bulk, which murmured and swayed and quivered all the time the dancing and juggling and love-making went on in front of it, slowly laughed and reluctantly left off laughing, and applauded with a helter-skelter generosity which sometimes became unanimous and overwhelming. Once William saw Katharine leaning forward and clapping her hands with an abandonment that startled him. Her laugh rang out with the laughter of the audience. For a second he was puzzled, as if this laughter disclosed something that he had never suspected in her. But then Cassandra s face caught his eye, gazing with astonishment at the buffoon, not laughing, too deeply intent and surprised to laugh at what she saw, and for some moments he watched her as if she were a child. The performance came to an end, the illusion dying out first here and then there, as some rose to put on their coats, others stood upright to salute "God Save the King," the musicians folded their music and encased their instruments, and the lights sank one by one until the house was empty, silent, and full of great shadows. Looking back over her shoulder as she
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Night And Day
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We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.
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No speaker
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Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type,"
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"Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame
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be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in
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Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a
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des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went
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She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette
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asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. "I can't do it. Nothing will make me do it." "Robert," I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked. "Did I talk out loud just then?" "Something. But it wasn't clear." "God, what a rotten dream!" "Did the typewriter put you to sleep?" "Guess so. I didn't sleep all last night." "What was the matter?" "Talking," he said. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Caf Napolitain to have an _ap ritif_ and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard. CHAPTER 3 It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the _poules_ going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that." Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club. The dancing-club was a _bal musette_ in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevi ve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. "I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we
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go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up. "Well, what will you drink?" I asked. "Pernod." "That's not good for little girls." "Little girl yourself. Dites gar on, un pernod." "A pernod for me, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Going on a party?" "Sure. Aren't you?" "I don't know. You never know in this town." "Don't you like Paris?" "No." "Why don't you go somewhere else?" "Isn't anywhere else." "You're happy, all right." "Happy, hell!" Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen. "Well," I said, "are you going to buy me a dinner?" She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling _fiacre_ we moved up the Avenue de l'Op ra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York _Herald_ bureau with the window full of clocks. "What are all the clocks for?" she asked. "They show the hour all over America." "Don't kid me." We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. "Never mind." "What's the matter? You sick?" "Yes." "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too." We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints P res. "You oughtn't to drink pernod if you're sick." "You neither." "It doesn't make any difference with me. It doesn't make any difference with a woman." "What are you called?" "Georgette. How are you called?" "Jacob." "That's a Flemish name." "American too." "You're not Flamand?" "No, American." "Good, I detest Flamands." By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the _cocher_ to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. "This is no great thing of a restaurant." "No," I said. "Maybe you would rather go to Foyot's. Why don't you keep the cab and go on?" I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was a long time since I had dined with a _poule_, and I had forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the restaurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the food. "It isn't bad here," she said. "It isn't chic, but the food is all right." "Better than you eat in Li ge." "Brussels, you mean."<|quote|>We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made a joke. She smiled and showed all her bad teeth, and we touched glasses.</|quote|>"You're not a bad type," she said. "It's a shame you're sick. We get on well. What's the matter with you, anyway?" "I got hurt in the war," I said. "Oh, that dirty war." We would probably have gone on and discussed the war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. I was bored enough. Just then from the other room some one called: "Barnes! I say, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!" "It's a friend calling me," I explained, and went out. There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I did not know. "You're coming to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "Why, the dancings. Don't you know we've revived them?" Mrs. Braddocks put in. "You must come, Jake. We're all going," Frances said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a smile. "Of course, he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in and have coffee with us, Barnes." "Right." "And bring your friend," said Mrs. Braddocks laughing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social graces. "Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writers and artists." "There are lots of those on this side of the river." "Too many." "I think so. Still, some of them make money." "Oh, yes." We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others." Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lipstick, and straightened her hat. "Good," she said. We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up. "I wish to present my fianc e, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round. "Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked. "Connais pas," Georgette answered. "But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying. "He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said. "Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at." "Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fianc e as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin." "Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time." "Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne called, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?" "Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?" She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. "No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty." "Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe." "I find it dirty." "How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here
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The Sun Also Rises
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But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.
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No speaker
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not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_
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"Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford,
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perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not
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cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the
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the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife. "Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since" ". Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin. They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment." CHAPTER XIX How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not
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Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day. The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife. "Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since" ". Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin. They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment." CHAPTER XIX How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps. Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her words, he still
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with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough; and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all. Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices. _She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her shrank she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day. The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife. "Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since" ". Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin. They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment." CHAPTER XIX How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps. Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him." Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delighted haste. Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before him, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas
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very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her shrank she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day. The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife. "Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since" ". Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."<|quote|>But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.</|quote|>"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin. They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment." CHAPTER XIX How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps. Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon as she could notice this, and see
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Mansfield Park
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he replied gravely,
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No speaker
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left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting
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seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by
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it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
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expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such,"
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contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When
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all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the
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of man, and I thought well of his daughter better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter s being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too." "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be could Willoughby!" "The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who _can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor. "His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor s letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne s affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish her not to indulge! Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other s way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of
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She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others." Elinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes,"<|quote|>he replied gravely,</|quote|>"once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you met him to" "I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him. CHAPTER XXXII. When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt _was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his
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Sense And Sensibility
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“Where are you working?”
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Mrs. Harling
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eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker.
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town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach
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in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have
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“You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She
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and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t
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But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for Charley.” WE were singing rhymes to tease Ántonia while she was beating up one of Charley’s favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly. Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed up!” Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked
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blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to want it. Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours, moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on Sunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the “nobles” of whom Ántonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little finger. Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. Mrs. Harling and Nina and Ántonia made as much noise as a houseful of children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played. When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed the plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even Nina played the Swedish Wedding March. Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she managed to practice every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on an errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her short, square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with intelligent concentration. IV “I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, and I won’t have none of your barley, But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for Charley.” WE were singing rhymes to tease Ántonia while she was beating up one of Charley’s favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly. Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed up!” Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.” Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk. She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. “You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little more cordial to her. “I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” “Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim has heard all that gossip?” When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I. I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm.
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and Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. “Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly. Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed up!” Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure. “Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” “Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. “You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.” Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven. “So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena.<|quote|>“Where are you working?”</|quote|>“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a dressmaker.” “Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How is your mother?” “Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” “See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. “No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky. Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” “I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of anybody.” “That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn dressmaking?” “Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” “Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. “Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her waitresses.” Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely. Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she
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My Antonia
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said Jem harshly.
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No speaker
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"Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow.
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and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha
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for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a
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him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of
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the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night,
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I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose. But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they were in a rough hut-like place open at the front. The sulphurous odour was quite strong, the steam felt hot and oppressive, and yet pleasant after the long chilling effect of the water, and he listened to a peculiar gurgling, bubbling noise, which was accompanied now and then by a faint pop. He had hardly realised this when he felt that his clothes were being stripped from him, and for a moment he felt disposed to resist; but he was breathless and wearied out, and rough as was the attention, it struck him that it was only preparatory to giving him a dry blanket to wear till his drenched garments were dry, and hence he suffered patiently. But that was not all, for, as the last garment was stripped off, Ngati said some words to his people, and before he could realise what was going to be done, Don felt himself seized by four men, each taking a
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"Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him." "My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose. But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they were in a rough hut-like place open at the front. The sulphurous odour was quite strong, the steam felt hot and oppressive, and yet pleasant after the long chilling effect of the water, and he listened to a peculiar gurgling, bubbling noise, which was accompanied now and then by a faint pop. He had hardly realised this when he felt that his clothes were being stripped from him, and for a moment he felt disposed to resist; but he was breathless and wearied out, and rough as was the attention, it struck him that it was only preparatory to giving him a dry blanket to wear till his drenched garments were dry, and hence he suffered patiently. But that was not all, for, as the last garment was stripped off, Ngati said some words to his people, and before he could realise what was going to be done, Don felt himself seized by four men, each taking a wrist or ankle, and holding him suspended before Ngati, who went behind him and supported his head. "Hah!" ejaculated Ngati, with a peculiar grunt. His men all acted with military precision, and, to Don's astonishment, he found himself plunged into a rocky basin of hot water. His first idea was to struggle, but there was no need. He had been lowered in rapidly but gently, and he felt Ngati place the back of his head softly against a smooth pleasantly-warm hollowed-out stone, while the sensation, after all he had gone through, was so delicious that he uttered a sigh of satisfaction. For now he realised the hospitality of the people who had brought him there, and the fact that to recover him from the chill of being half drowned, they had brought him to one of their hot springs, used by them as baths. Don uttered another sigh of satisfaction, and as he lay back covered to his chin in the hot volcanic water, he began to laugh so heartily that the tears came into his eyes. For the same process was going on in the darkness with Jem, who was a less tractable patient, especially as he had taken it into his thick head that it was not for his benefit that he was to be plunged into a hot water pool, but to make soup for the New Zealanders around. "Mas' Don!" he cried out of the darkness, "where are you? I want to get out of this. Here, be quiet, will yer? What yer doing of? I say. Don't. Here, what are you going to do?" Don wanted to say a word to calm Jem's alarms, but after the agony he had gone through, it seemed to him as if his nerves were relaxed beyond control, and his companion's perplexity presented itself to him in so comical a light, that he could do nothing but lie back there in his delicious bath, and laugh hysterically; and all the while he could hear the New Zealanders gobbling angrily in reply to Jem's objections, as a fierce struggle went on. "That's your game, is it? I wouldn't ha' thought it of a set who calls theirselves men. Shove me into that hot pot, and boil me, would you? Not if I knows it, you don't. Hi! Mas' Don! Look out! Run, my lad. They're trying to cook me alive,
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he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?"<|quote|>said Jem harshly.</|quote|>"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat. "Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?" Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose. But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they were in a rough hut-like place open at the front. The sulphurous odour was quite strong, the steam felt hot and oppressive, and yet pleasant after the long chilling effect of the water, and he listened to a peculiar gurgling, bubbling noise, which was accompanied now and then by a faint pop. He had hardly realised this when he felt that his clothes were being stripped from
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Don Lavington
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I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.
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No speaker
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it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,”
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clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer
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the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport
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sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him
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be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench
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and the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound. “If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into
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Adam’s study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall. He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. “It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t—When I try to—” He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an over-wound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. “They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound. “If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.” Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together. VI About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say. “Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely. “Why—any statement to give out.” It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.” It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to say. James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along
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by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. “Who’s this?” “That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” The name sounded faintly familiar. “He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen. “I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.” “Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.” They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. “Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” He rang off. “Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. “Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.”<|quote|>I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone.</|quote|>“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the piano.” He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. “Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. “I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. “That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” “Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t you, Ewing, old sport?” “I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” “We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. “I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all out of prac—” “Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all
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The Great Gatsby
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"Sure,"
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Bill Gorton
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to go to the fight?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>said Bill. "If we don't
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I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was
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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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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
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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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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
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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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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
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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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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. "He is, you know." "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
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went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Caf Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. "Want to have a drink?" "No," said Bill. "I don't need it." We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Gr ce, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Boulevard du Port Royal. "What do you want to do?" I asked. "Go up to the caf and see Brett and Mike?" "Why not?" We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little caf s, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking. "Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?" "You look very fit, Mike." "Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea." Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. "It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my 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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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. "He is, you know." "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
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caf and see Brett and Mike?" "Why not?" We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little caf s, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking. "Hel-lo, Jake," he said. "Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?" "You look very fit, Mike." "Oh, I am. I'm frightfully fit. I've done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea." Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. "It's good to see you, Jake," Michael said. "I'm a little tight you know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my 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?"<|quote|>"Sure,"</|quote|>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. "He is, you know." "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
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The Sun Also Rises
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repeated Sir John.
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No speaker
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I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at
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good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the
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Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is
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if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will
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property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will
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him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged
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been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is _he_ in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?" "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is _that_ all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?" Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_ morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But
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that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care." "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"<|quote|>repeated Sir John.</|quote|>"I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and setting one s cap at a man, or making a conquest, are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." CHAPTER X. Marianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing
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Sense And Sensibility
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"it's very rude."
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Alice
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Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes
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not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this;
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table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean
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tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not
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their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and
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the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took 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
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_that_ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now _I_ growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." "_I_ call it purring, not growling," said Alice. "Call it what you like," said the Cat. "Do you play croquet with the Queen to-day?" "I should like it very much," said Alice, "but I haven't been invited yet." "You'll see me there," said the Cat, and vanished. Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again. "By-the-bye, what became of the baby?" said the Cat. "I'd nearly forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took 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.
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forgotten to ask." "It turned into a pig," Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back in a natural way. "I thought it would," said the Cat, and vanished again. Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity;<|quote|>"it's very rude."</|quote|>The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!" "You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe'!" "It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks, which wasn't much. The Hatter was the first to break the silence. "What day of the month is it?" he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear. Alice considered a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!" sighed the Hatter. "I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added looking angrily at the March Hare. "It was the _best_ butter," the March Hare meekly replied. "Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well," the Hatter grumbled: "you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife." The March Hare took 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."
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.
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No speaker
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going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might
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go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody
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think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett
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hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It
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do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't
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lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She
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him lightly in the flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the walls, his crest of muscle rising. The steer came up to him and made as though to nose at him and the bull hooked perfunctorily. The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two of them trotted over to the other bull. When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls and the steer, stood together, their heads side by side, their horns against the newcomer. In a few minutes the steer picked the new bull up, quieted him down, and made him one of the herd. When the last two bulls had been unloaded the herd were all together. The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet and stood against the stone wall. None of the bulls came near him, and he did not attempt to join the herd. We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and had a last look at the bulls through the loopholes in the wall of the corral. They were all quiet now, their heads down. We got a carriage outside and rode up to the caf . Mike and Bill came in half an hour later. They had stopped on the way for several drinks. We were sitting in the caf . "That's an extraordinary business," Brett said. "Will those last ones fight as well as the first?" Robert Cohn asked. "They seemed to quiet down awfully fast." "They all know each other," I said. "They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together." "What do you mean, dangerous?" Bill said. "They all looked dangerous to me." "They only want to kill when they're alone. Of course, if you went in there you'd probably detach one of them from the herd, and he'd be dangerous." "That's too complicated," Bill said. "Don't you ever detach me from the herd, Mike." "I say," Mike said, "they _were_ fine bulls, weren't they? Did you see their horns?" "Did I not," said Brett. "I had no idea what they were like." "Did you see the one hit that steer?" Mike asked. "That was extraordinary." "It's no life being a steer," Robert Cohn said. "Don't you think so?" Mike said. "I would have thought you'd loved being a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the caf ." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut
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a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink."<|quote|>Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted.</|quote|>"I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the
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The Sun Also Rises
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she added.
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No speaker
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an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!"
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table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized
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_here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at
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almost stop beating. The figure was Polina! XIV The shock made me utter an exclamation. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" she asked in a strange voice. She was looking pale, and her eyes were dim. "What is the matter?" I re-echoed. "Why, the fact that you are _here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at all events the general sense. "Mademoiselle," the document ran, "certain untoward circumstances compel me to depart in haste. Of course, you have of yourself remarked that hitherto I have always refrained from having any final explanation with you, for the reason that I could not well state the whole circumstances;
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arrived for the purpose when I entered. Fortunately, the poor General did not know that his fate had been decided that Mlle. had long ago packed her trunks in readiness for the first morning train to Paris! Hesitating a moment on the threshold I changed my mind as to entering, and departed unnoticed. Ascending to my own room, and opening the door, I perceived in the semi-darkness a figure seated on a chair in the corner by the window. The figure did not rise when I entered, so I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely, and felt my heart almost stop beating. The figure was Polina! XIV The shock made me utter an exclamation. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" she asked in a strange voice. She was looking pale, and her eyes were dim. "What is the matter?" I re-echoed. "Why, the fact that you are _here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at all events the general sense. "Mademoiselle," the document ran, "certain untoward circumstances compel me to depart in haste. Of course, you have of yourself remarked that hitherto I have always refrained from having any final explanation with you, for the reason that I could not well state the whole circumstances; and now to my difficulties the advent of the aged Grandmother, coupled with her subsequent proceedings, has put the final touch. Also, the involved state of my affairs forbids me to write with any finality concerning those hopes of ultimate bliss upon which, for a long while past, I have permitted myself to feed. I regret the past, but at the same time hope that in my conduct you have never been able to detect anything that was unworthy of a gentleman and a man of honour. Having lost, however, almost the whole of my money in debts incurred by
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hastened to the station, and put the Grandmother into her compartment she and her party occupying a reserved family saloon. "Thanks for your disinterested assistance," she said at parting. "Oh, and please remind Prascovia of what I said to her last night. I expect soon to see her." Then I returned home. As I was passing the door of the General s suite, I met the nursemaid, and inquired after her master. "There is nothing new to report, sir," she replied quietly. Nevertheless I decided to enter, and was just doing so when I halted thunderstruck on the threshold. For before me I beheld the General and Mlle. Blanche laughing gaily at one another! while beside them, on the sofa, there was seated her mother. Clearly the General was almost out of his mind with joy, for he was talking all sorts of nonsense, and bubbling over with a long-drawn, nervous laugh a laugh which twisted his face into innumerable wrinkles, and caused his eyes almost to disappear. Afterwards I learnt from Mlle. Blanche herself that, after dismissing the Prince and hearing of the General s tears, she bethought her of going to comfort the old man, and had just arrived for the purpose when I entered. Fortunately, the poor General did not know that his fate had been decided that Mlle. had long ago packed her trunks in readiness for the first morning train to Paris! Hesitating a moment on the threshold I changed my mind as to entering, and departed unnoticed. Ascending to my own room, and opening the door, I perceived in the semi-darkness a figure seated on a chair in the corner by the window. The figure did not rise when I entered, so I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely, and felt my heart almost stop beating. The figure was Polina! XIV The shock made me utter an exclamation. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" she asked in a strange voice. She was looking pale, and her eyes were dim. "What is the matter?" I re-echoed. "Why, the fact that you are _here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at all events the general sense. "Mademoiselle," the document ran, "certain untoward circumstances compel me to depart in haste. Of course, you have of yourself remarked that hitherto I have always refrained from having any final explanation with you, for the reason that I could not well state the whole circumstances; and now to my difficulties the advent of the aged Grandmother, coupled with her subsequent proceedings, has put the final touch. Also, the involved state of my affairs forbids me to write with any finality concerning those hopes of ultimate bliss upon which, for a long while past, I have permitted myself to feed. I regret the past, but at the same time hope that in my conduct you have never been able to detect anything that was unworthy of a gentleman and a man of honour. Having lost, however, almost the whole of my money in debts incurred by your stepfather, I find myself driven to the necessity of saving the remainder; wherefore, I have instructed certain friends of mine in St. Petersburg to arrange for the sale of all the property which has been mortgaged to myself. At the same time, knowing that, in addition, your frivolous stepfather has squandered money which is exclusively yours, I have decided to absolve him from a certain moiety of the mortgages on his property, in order that you may be in a position to recover of him what you have lost, by suing him in legal fashion. I trust, therefore, that, as matters now stand, this action of mine may bring you some advantage. I trust also that this same action leaves me in the position of having fulfilled every obligation which is incumbent upon a man of honour and refinement. Rest assured that your memory will for ever remain graven in my heart." "All this is clear enough," I commented. "Surely you did not expect aught else from him?" Somehow I was feeling annoyed. "I expected nothing at all from him," she replied quietly enough, to all outward seeming, yet with a note of irritation in her tone. "Long ago
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I have sent for that English friend of yours, and am going to beg of him three thousand francs for a week. Please try and persuade him to think nothing of it, nor yet to refuse me, for I am still a rich woman who possesses three villages and a couple of mansions. Yes, the money shall be found, for I have not yet squandered _everything_. I tell you this in order that he may have no doubts about Ah, but here he is! Clearly he is a good fellow." True enough, Astley had come hot-foot on receiving the Grandmother s appeal. Scarcely stopping even to reflect, and with scarcely a word, he counted out the three thousand francs under a note of hand which she duly signed. Then, his business done, he bowed, and lost no time in taking his departure. "You too leave me, Alexis Ivanovitch," said the Grandmother. "All my bones are aching, and I still have an hour in which to rest. Do not be hard upon me, old fool that I am. Never again shall I blame young people for being frivolous. I should think it wrong even to blame that unhappy General of yours. Nevertheless, I do not mean to let him have any of my money (which is all that he desires), for the reason that I look upon him as a perfect blockhead, and consider myself, simpleton though I be, at least wiser than _he_ is. How surely does God visit old age, and punish it for its presumption! Well, good-bye. Martha, come and lift me up." However, I had a mind to see the old lady off; and, moreover, I was in an expectant frame of mind somehow I kept thinking that _something_ was going to happen; wherefore, I could not rest quietly in my room, but stepped out into the corridor, and then into the Chestnut Avenue for a few minutes stroll. My letter to Polina had been clear and firm, and in the present crisis, I felt sure, would prove final. I had heard of De Griers departure, and, however much Polina might reject me as a _friend_, she might not reject me altogether as a _servant_. She would need me to fetch and carry for her, and I was ready to do so. How could it have been otherwise? Towards the hour of the train s departure I hastened to the station, and put the Grandmother into her compartment she and her party occupying a reserved family saloon. "Thanks for your disinterested assistance," she said at parting. "Oh, and please remind Prascovia of what I said to her last night. I expect soon to see her." Then I returned home. As I was passing the door of the General s suite, I met the nursemaid, and inquired after her master. "There is nothing new to report, sir," she replied quietly. Nevertheless I decided to enter, and was just doing so when I halted thunderstruck on the threshold. For before me I beheld the General and Mlle. Blanche laughing gaily at one another! while beside them, on the sofa, there was seated her mother. Clearly the General was almost out of his mind with joy, for he was talking all sorts of nonsense, and bubbling over with a long-drawn, nervous laugh a laugh which twisted his face into innumerable wrinkles, and caused his eyes almost to disappear. Afterwards I learnt from Mlle. Blanche herself that, after dismissing the Prince and hearing of the General s tears, she bethought her of going to comfort the old man, and had just arrived for the purpose when I entered. Fortunately, the poor General did not know that his fate had been decided that Mlle. had long ago packed her trunks in readiness for the first morning train to Paris! Hesitating a moment on the threshold I changed my mind as to entering, and departed unnoticed. Ascending to my own room, and opening the door, I perceived in the semi-darkness a figure seated on a chair in the corner by the window. The figure did not rise when I entered, so I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely, and felt my heart almost stop beating. The figure was Polina! XIV The shock made me utter an exclamation. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" she asked in a strange voice. She was looking pale, and her eyes were dim. "What is the matter?" I re-echoed. "Why, the fact that you are _here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at all events the general sense. "Mademoiselle," the document ran, "certain untoward circumstances compel me to depart in haste. Of course, you have of yourself remarked that hitherto I have always refrained from having any final explanation with you, for the reason that I could not well state the whole circumstances; and now to my difficulties the advent of the aged Grandmother, coupled with her subsequent proceedings, has put the final touch. Also, the involved state of my affairs forbids me to write with any finality concerning those hopes of ultimate bliss upon which, for a long while past, I have permitted myself to feed. I regret the past, but at the same time hope that in my conduct you have never been able to detect anything that was unworthy of a gentleman and a man of honour. Having lost, however, almost the whole of my money in debts incurred by your stepfather, I find myself driven to the necessity of saving the remainder; wherefore, I have instructed certain friends of mine in St. Petersburg to arrange for the sale of all the property which has been mortgaged to myself. At the same time, knowing that, in addition, your frivolous stepfather has squandered money which is exclusively yours, I have decided to absolve him from a certain moiety of the mortgages on his property, in order that you may be in a position to recover of him what you have lost, by suing him in legal fashion. I trust, therefore, that, as matters now stand, this action of mine may bring you some advantage. I trust also that this same action leaves me in the position of having fulfilled every obligation which is incumbent upon a man of honour and refinement. Rest assured that your memory will for ever remain graven in my heart." "All this is clear enough," I commented. "Surely you did not expect aught else from him?" Somehow I was feeling annoyed. "I expected nothing at all from him," she replied quietly enough, to all outward seeming, yet with a note of irritation in her tone. "Long ago I made up my mind on the subject, for I could read his thoughts, and knew what he was thinking. He thought that possibly I should sue him that one day I might become a nuisance." Here Polina halted for a moment, and stood biting her lips. "So of set purpose I redoubled my contemptuous treatment of him, and waited to see what he would do. If a telegram to say that we had become legatees had arrived from, St. Petersburg, I should have flung at him a quittance for my foolish stepfather s debts, and then dismissed him. For a long time I have hated him. Even in earlier days he was not a man; and now! Oh, how gladly I could throw those fifty thousand roubles in his face, and spit in it, and then rub the spittle in!" "But the document returning the fifty-thousand rouble mortgage has the General got it? If so, possess yourself of it, and send it to De Griers." "No, no; the General has not got it." "Just as I expected! Well, what is the General going to do?" Then an idea suddenly occurred to me. "What about the Grandmother?" I asked. Polina looked at me with impatience and bewilderment. "What makes you speak of _her?_" was her irritable inquiry. "I cannot go and live with her. Nor," she added hotly, "will I go down upon my knees to _any one_." "Why should you?" I cried. "Yet to think that you should have loved De Griers! The villain, the villain! But I will kill him in a duel. Where is he now?" "In Frankfort, where he will be staying for the next three days." "Well, bid me do so, and I will go to him by the first train tomorrow," I exclaimed with enthusiasm. She smiled. "If you were to do that," she said, "he would merely tell you to be so good as first to return him the fifty thousand francs. What, then, would be the use of having a quarrel with him? You talk sheer nonsense." I ground my teeth. "The question," I went on, "is how to raise the fifty thousand francs. We cannot expect to find them lying about on the floor. Listen. What of Mr. Astley?" Even as I spoke a new and strange idea formed itself in my brain. Her eyes flashed fire. "What? _you yourself_ wish
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and consider myself, simpleton though I be, at least wiser than _he_ is. How surely does God visit old age, and punish it for its presumption! Well, good-bye. Martha, come and lift me up." However, I had a mind to see the old lady off; and, moreover, I was in an expectant frame of mind somehow I kept thinking that _something_ was going to happen; wherefore, I could not rest quietly in my room, but stepped out into the corridor, and then into the Chestnut Avenue for a few minutes stroll. My letter to Polina had been clear and firm, and in the present crisis, I felt sure, would prove final. I had heard of De Griers departure, and, however much Polina might reject me as a _friend_, she might not reject me altogether as a _servant_. She would need me to fetch and carry for her, and I was ready to do so. How could it have been otherwise? Towards the hour of the train s departure I hastened to the station, and put the Grandmother into her compartment she and her party occupying a reserved family saloon. "Thanks for your disinterested assistance," she said at parting. "Oh, and please remind Prascovia of what I said to her last night. I expect soon to see her." Then I returned home. As I was passing the door of the General s suite, I met the nursemaid, and inquired after her master. "There is nothing new to report, sir," she replied quietly. Nevertheless I decided to enter, and was just doing so when I halted thunderstruck on the threshold. For before me I beheld the General and Mlle. Blanche laughing gaily at one another! while beside them, on the sofa, there was seated her mother. Clearly the General was almost out of his mind with joy, for he was talking all sorts of nonsense, and bubbling over with a long-drawn, nervous laugh a laugh which twisted his face into innumerable wrinkles, and caused his eyes almost to disappear. Afterwards I learnt from Mlle. Blanche herself that, after dismissing the Prince and hearing of the General s tears, she bethought her of going to comfort the old man, and had just arrived for the purpose when I entered. Fortunately, the poor General did not know that his fate had been decided that Mlle. had long ago packed her trunks in readiness for the first morning train to Paris! Hesitating a moment on the threshold I changed my mind as to entering, and departed unnoticed. Ascending to my own room, and opening the door, I perceived in the semi-darkness a figure seated on a chair in the corner by the window. The figure did not rise when I entered, so I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely, and felt my heart almost stop beating. The figure was Polina! XIV The shock made me utter an exclamation. "What is the matter? What is the matter?" she asked in a strange voice. She was looking pale, and her eyes were dim. "What is the matter?" I re-echoed. "Why, the fact that you are _here!_" "If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring," she said. "Such has always been my way, as you shall presently see. Please light a candle." I did so; whereupon she rose, approached the table, and laid upon it an open letter. "Read it,"<|quote|>she added.</|quote|>"It is De Griers handwriting!" I cried as I seized the document. My hands were so tremulous that the lines on the pages danced before my eyes. Although, at this distance of time, I have forgotten the exact phraseology of the missive, I append, if not the precise words, at all events the general sense. "Mademoiselle," the document ran, "certain untoward circumstances compel me to depart in haste. Of course, you have of yourself remarked that hitherto I have always refrained from having any final explanation with you, for the reason that I could not well state the whole circumstances; and now to my difficulties the advent of the aged Grandmother, coupled with her subsequent proceedings, has put the final touch. Also, the involved state of my affairs forbids me to write with any finality concerning those hopes of ultimate bliss upon which, for a long while past, I have permitted myself to feed. I regret the past, but at the same time hope that in my conduct you have never been able to detect anything that was unworthy of a gentleman and a man of honour. Having lost, however, almost the whole of my money in debts incurred by your stepfather, I find myself driven to the necessity of saving the remainder; wherefore, I have instructed certain friends of mine in St. Petersburg to arrange for the sale of all the property which has been mortgaged to myself. At the same time, knowing that, in addition, your frivolous stepfather has squandered money which is exclusively yours, I have decided to absolve him from a certain moiety of the mortgages on his property, in order that you may be in a position to recover of him what you have lost, by suing him in legal fashion. I trust, therefore, that, as matters now stand, this action of mine may bring you some advantage. I trust also that this same action leaves me in the position of having fulfilled every obligation which is incumbent upon a man of honour and refinement. Rest assured that your memory will for ever remain graven in my heart." "All this is clear enough," I commented. "Surely you did not expect aught else from him?" Somehow I was feeling annoyed. "I expected nothing at all from him," she replied quietly enough, to all outward seeming, yet with a note of irritation in her tone. "Long ago I made up my mind on the subject, for I could read his thoughts, and knew what he was thinking. He thought that possibly I should sue him that one day I might become a nuisance." Here Polina halted for a moment, and stood biting her lips. "So of set purpose I redoubled my contemptuous treatment of him, and waited to see what he would do. If a telegram to say that we had become legatees had arrived from, St. Petersburg, I should have flung at him a quittance for my foolish stepfather s debts, and then dismissed him. For a long time I have hated him. Even in earlier days he
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The Gambler
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said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.
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No speaker
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Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as
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said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the
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Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me,
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had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!"
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made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!" "Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!" "I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!" The blessing was from a young child's lips, but
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Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!" "Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!" "I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!" The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it. CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live. The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind. London! that great place! nobody not even Mr. Bumble could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that
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wanted to." "Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him 'cause master's out." "Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy a very good boy. Here's a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble." "No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker's shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: "Oliver!" "Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside. "Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes," replied Oliver. "Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble. "No!" replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. "Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you." "It's not Madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. "It's Meat." "What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!" "Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!" "I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!" The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it. CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live. The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind. London! that great place! nobody not even Mr. Bumble could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward. He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too a gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well in his pocket. "A clean shirt," thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk in winter time." But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on. Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles. He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his
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this would never have happened." "Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: "this comes of being liberal!" The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. "Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before." At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. "Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. "He called my mother names," replied Oliver. "Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse." "She didn't" said Oliver. "She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "It's a lie!"<|quote|>said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went it was not very extensive kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around one moment's pause of hesitation he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.</|quote|>"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?" "Nobody but me," replied the child. "You musn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!" "I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child with a faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!" "Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!" "I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver's neck. "Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!" The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it. CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live. The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind. London! that great place! nobody not even Mr. Bumble could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward. He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must
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Oliver Twist
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“But you do ‘love’ you know,”
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Lord John
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said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I
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“As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want
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been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp
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only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed
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over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord
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This again in turn visibly affected Lord John: marking the moment from which he, in spite of his cultivated levity, allowed an intenser and more sustained look to keep straying toward their host. “Mr. Bender’s bound to _have_ something!” It was even as if after a minute Lord Theign had been reached by his friend’s mute pressure. “‘Something’?” “Something, Mr. Bender?” Lord John insisted. It made their visitor rather sharply fix him. “Why, have _you_ an interest, Lord John?” This personage, though undisturbed by the challenge, if such it was, referred it to Lord Theign. “Do you authorise me to speak--a little--as if I have an interest?” Lord Theign gave the appeal--and the speaker--a certain attention, and then appeared rather sharply to turn away from them. “My dear fellow, you may amuse yourself at my expense as you like!” “Oh, I don’t mean at your expense,” Lord John laughed-- “I mean at Mr. Bender’s!” “Well, go ahead, Lord John,” said that gentleman, always easy, but always too, as you would have felt, aware of everything-- “go ahead, but don’t sweetly hope to create me in any desire that doesn’t already exist in the germ. The attempt has often been made, over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr.
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On which he paused as to enjoy, with a show of his fine teeth, his host’s reassurance. “It _has_ yet, my impression of that picture, sir, led to something else. Are you prepared, Lord Theign, to entertain a proposition?” Lord Theign met Mr. Bender’s eyes while this inquirer left these few portentous words to speak for themselves. “To the effect that I part to you with ‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge’? No, Mr. Bender, such a proposition would leave me intensely cold.” Lord John had meanwhile had a more headlong cry. “My dear Bender, I _envy_ you!” “I guess you don’t envy me,” his friend serenely replied, “as much as I envy Lord Theign.” And then while Mr. Bender and the latter continued to face each other searchingly and firmly: “What I allude to is an overture of a strong and simple stamp--such as perhaps would shed a softer light on the difficulties raised by association and attachment. I’ve had some experience of first shocks, and I’d be glad to meet you as man to man.” Mr. Bender was, quite clearly, all genial and all sincere; he intended no irony and used, consciously, no great freedom. Lord Theign, not less evidently, saw this, and it permitted him amusement. “As rich man to poor man is how I’m to understand it? For me to meet _you_,” he added, “I should have to be tempted--and I’m not even temptable. So there we are,” he blandly smiled. His blandness appeared even for a moment to set an example to Lord John. “‘The Beautiful Duchess of Waterbridge,’ Mr. Bender, is a golden apple of one of those great family trees of which respectable people don’t lop off the branches whose venerable shade, in this garish and denuded age, they so much enjoy.” Mr. Bender looked at him as if he had cut some irrelevant caper. “Then if they don’t sell their ancestors where in the world are all the ancestors bought?” “Doesn’t it for the moment sufficiently answer your question,” Lord Theign asked, “that they’re definitely not bought at Dedborough?” “Why,” said Mr. Bender with a wealthy patience, “you talk as if it were my interest to be _reasonable_--which shows how little you understand. I’d be ashamed--with the lovely ideas I have--if I didn’t make you kick.” And his sturdy smile for it all fairly proclaimed his faith. “Well, I guess I can wait!” This again in turn visibly affected Lord John: marking the moment from which he, in spite of his cultivated levity, allowed an intenser and more sustained look to keep straying toward their host. “Mr. Bender’s bound to _have_ something!” It was even as if after a minute Lord Theign had been reached by his friend’s mute pressure. “‘Something’?” “Something, Mr. Bender?” Lord John insisted. It made their visitor rather sharply fix him. “Why, have _you_ an interest, Lord John?” This personage, though undisturbed by the challenge, if such it was, referred it to Lord Theign. “Do you authorise me to speak--a little--as if I have an interest?” Lord Theign gave the appeal--and the speaker--a certain attention, and then appeared rather sharply to turn away from them. “My dear fellow, you may amuse yourself at my expense as you like!” “Oh, I don’t mean at your expense,” Lord John laughed-- “I mean at Mr. Bender’s!” “Well, go ahead, Lord John,” said that gentleman, always easy, but always too, as you would have felt, aware of everything-- “go ahead, but don’t sweetly hope to create me in any desire that doesn’t already exist in the germ. The attempt has often been made, over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,” Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, “what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord Theign, is that I’ve no use for a ten thousand picture.” “‘No use?’” --the expression had an oddity. “But what’s it your idea to do with such things?” “I mean,” Mr. Bender explained, “that a picture of that rank is not what I’m after.” “The figure,” said his noble host--speaking thus, under pressure, commercially-- “is beyond what you see your way to?” But Lord John had jumped at the truth. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he sees his way much further.” “Further?” their companion echoed. “The matter with Mr. Bender is that he wants to give millions.” Lord Theign sounded this abyss with a smile. “Well, there would be no difficulty about _that_, I think!” “Ah,” said his guest, “you know the basis, sir, on which I’m ready to pay.” “On the basis then of the Sir Joshua,” Lord John inquired, “how far would you go?” Mr. Bender indicated by a gesture that on a question reduced to a moiety by its conditional form he could give but semi-satisfaction. “Well, I’d go all the way.” “He wants, you see,” Lord John elucidated, “an _ideally_ expensive thing.” Lord Theign appeared to decide after a moment to enter into the pleasant spirit of this; which he did by addressing his younger friend. “Then why shouldn’t I make even the Moretto as expensive as he desires?” “Because
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often been made, over here--has in fact been organised on a considerable scale; but I guess I’ve got some peculiarity, for it doesn’t seem as if the thing could be done. If the germ is there, on the other hand,” Mr. Bender conceded, “it develops independently of all encouragement.” Lord John communicated again as in a particular sense with Lord Theign. “He thinks I really mean to _offer_ him something!” Lord Theign, who seemed to wish to advertise a degree of detachment from the issue, or from any other such, strolled off, in his restlessness, toward the door that opened to the terrace, only stopping on his way to light a cigarette from a matchbox on a small table. It was but after doing so that he made the remark: “Ah, Mr. Bender may easily be too much for you!” “That makes me the more sorry, sir,” said his visitor, “not to have been enough for _you!_” “I risk it, at any rate,” Lord John went on-- “I put you, Bender, the question of whether you wouldn’t Move,’ as you say, to acquire that Moretto.” Mr. Bender’s large face had a commensurate gaze. “As I say? I haven’t said anything of the sort!”<|quote|>“But you do ‘love’ you know,”</|quote|>Lord John slightly overgrimaced. “I don’t when I don’t want to. I’m different from most people--I can love or not as I like. The trouble with that Moretto,” Mr. Bender continued, “is that it ain’t what I’m after.” His “after” had somehow, for the ear, the vividness of a sharp whack on the resisting surface of things, and was concerned doubtless in Lord John’s speaking again across to their host. “The worst he can do for me, you see, is to refuse it.” Lord Theign, who practically had his back turned and was fairly dandling about in his impatience, tossed out to the terrace the cigarette he had but just lighted. Yet he faced round to reply: “It’s the very first time in the history of this house (a long one, Mr. Bender) that a picture, or anything else in it, has been offered----!” It was not imperceptible that even if he hadn’t dropped Mr. Bender mightn’t have been markedly impressed. “Then it must be the very first time such an offer has failed.” “Oh, it isn’t that we in the least press it!” Lord Theign quite naturally laughed. “Ah, I beg your pardon--I press it very hard!” And Lord John, as taking from his face and manner a cue for further humorous license, went so far as to emulate, though sympathetically enough, their companion’s native form. “You don’t mean to say you don’t feel the interest of that Moretto?” Mr. Bender, quietly confident, took his time to reply. “Well, if you had seen me up on that chair you’d have thought I did.” “Then you must have stepped down from the chair properly impressed.” “I stepped down quite impressed with that young man.” “Mr. Crimble?” --it came after an instant to Lord John. “With _his_ opinion, really? Then I hope he’s aware of the picture’s value.” “You had better ask him,” Mr. Bender observed. “Oh, we don’t depend here on the Mr. Crimbles!” Lord John returned. Mr. Bender took a longer look at him. “Are you aware of the value yourself?” His friend resorted again, as for the amusement of the thing, to their entertainer. “Am I aware of the value of the Moretto?” Lord Theign, who had meanwhile lighted another cigarette, appeared, a bit extravagantly smoking, to wish to put an end to his effect of hovering aloof. “That question needn’t trouble us--when I see how much Mr. Bender himself knows about it.” “Well, Lord Theign, I only know what that young man puts it at.” And then as the others waited, “Ten thousand,” said Mr. Bender. “Ten thousand?” The owner of the work showed no emotion. “Well,” said Lord John again in Mr. Bender’s style, “what’s the matter with ten thousand?” The subject of his gay tribute considered. “There’s nothing the matter with ten thousand.” “Then,” Lord Theign asked, “is there anything the matter with the picture?” “Yes, sir--I guess there is.” It gave an upward push to his lordship’s eyebrows. “But what in the world----?” “Well, that’s just the question!” The eyebrows continued to rise. “Does he pretend there’s a question of whether it _is_ a Moretto?” “That’s what he was up there trying to find out.” “But if the value’s, according to himself, ten thousand----?” “Why, of course,” said Mr. Bender, “it’s a fine work anyway.” “Then,” Lord Theign brought good-naturedly out, “what’s the matter with _you_, Mr. Bender?” That gentleman was perfectly clear. “The matter with me, Lord
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The Outcry
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Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.
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No speaker
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has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds,
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"but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the
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came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome
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their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very
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my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest
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any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought
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see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. [Illustration: MATLOCK] PRIDE AND PREJUDICE: A Novel. In Three Volumes. By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility." VOL. III. London: Printed for T. Egerton, Military Library, Whitehall. 1813. [Illustration: DOVE-DALE] PRIDE & PREJUDICE. CHAPTER I. Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was. The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying, "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master." "Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the world." Elizabeth almost stared at her.--" "Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she. "His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner. "Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just as affable to the poor." Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase. "He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men." "In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth. "This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked, "is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend." "Perhaps we might be deceived." "That is not very likely; our authority was too good." On reaching
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notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings. "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no," "--recollecting herself,--" "that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them." This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day! Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expence.--" "He is now gone into the army," she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."<|quote|>Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.</|quote|>"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other--about eight years ago." "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not." Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master. "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth coloured, and said--" "A little." "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?" "Yes, very handsome." "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them." This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them. Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old. "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner. "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him." Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister. "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?" "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months." "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate." "If your master would marry, you might see more of him." "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is good enough for him." Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so." "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was
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Pride And Prejudice
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"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"
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Anne Shirley
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they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I
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Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed,
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more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would
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I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to
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me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to
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purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne. "No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery
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cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne. "No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty-blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to "Beechwood." It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. "So you've come to see me at last, you Anne-girl," she said. "Mercy, child, how you have grown! You're taller than I am, I declare. And you're ever so much better looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told." "Indeed I didn't," said Anne radiantly. "I know I'm not so freckled as I used to be, so I've much to be thankful for, but I really hadn't dared to hope there was any other improvement. I'm so glad you think there is, Miss Barry." Miss Barry's house was furnished with "great magnificence," as Anne told Marilla afterward. The two little country girls were rather abashed by the splendor of the parlor
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Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it," cried Anne. "No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again."<|quote|>"I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,"</|quote|>said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp,
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Anne Of Green Gables
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"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."
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Yegor Semyonitch
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chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate,
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the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that
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Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of
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concerning Grafting with a Dormant Bud" ; and they were all of the same sort. But what a restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion! Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so." He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent gaze, as though
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you this plainly, without mincing matters, like an honest man." Kovrin laughed. Yegor Semyonitch opened the door to go out, and stood in the doorway. "If Tanya and you had a son, I would make a horticulturist of him," he said, after a moment's thought. "However, this is idle dreaming. Goodnight." Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and took up the articles. The title of one was "On Intercropping" ; of another, "A few Words on the Remarks of Monsieur Z. concerning the Trenching of the Soil for a New Garden" ; a third, "Additional Matter concerning Grafting with a Dormant Bud" ; and they were all of the same sort. But what a restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion! Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so." He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like her father with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal and was fond of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however insignificant, with expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No doubt she was nervous in the extreme. Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing of them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with which he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and listened to the music was now mastering him again and rousing a multitude of thoughts. He got up and began walking about the room, thinking about the
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it! There is one young dandy comes to see us, bringing his violin and scraping on it; I know Tanya will not marry him, I know it quite well; but I can't bear to see him! Altogether, my boy, I am very queer. I know that." Yegor Semyonitch got up and walked about the room in excitement, and it was evident that he wanted to say something very important, but could not bring himself to it. "I am very fond of you, and so I am going to speak to you openly," he decided at last, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I deal plainly with certain delicate questions, and say exactly what I think, and I cannot endure so-called hidden thoughts. I will speak plainly: you are the only man to whom I should not be afraid to marry my daughter. You are a clever man with a good heart, and would not let my beloved work go to ruin; and the chief reason is that I love you as a son, and I am proud of you. If Tanya and you could get up a romance somehow, then--well! I should be very glad and even happy. I tell you this plainly, without mincing matters, like an honest man." Kovrin laughed. Yegor Semyonitch opened the door to go out, and stood in the doorway. "If Tanya and you had a son, I would make a horticulturist of him," he said, after a moment's thought. "However, this is idle dreaming. Goodnight." Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and took up the articles. The title of one was "On Intercropping" ; of another, "A few Words on the Remarks of Monsieur Z. concerning the Trenching of the Soil for a New Garden" ; a third, "Additional Matter concerning Grafting with a Dormant Bud" ; and they were all of the same sort. But what a restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion! Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so." He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like her father with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal and was fond of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however insignificant, with expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No doubt she was nervous in the extreme. Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing of them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with which he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and listened to the music was now mastering him again and rousing a multitude of thoughts. He got up and began walking about the room, thinking about the black monk. It occurred to him that if this strange, supernatural monk had appeared to him only, that meant that he was ill and had reached the point of having hallucinations. This reflection frightened him, but not for long. "But I am all right, and I am doing no harm to any one; so there is no harm in my hallucinations," he thought; and he felt happy again. He sat down on the sofa and clasped his hands round his head. Restraining the unaccountable joy which filled his whole being, he then paced up and down again, and sat down to his work. But the thought that he read in the book did not satisfy him. He wanted something gigantic, unfathomable, stupendous. Towards morning he undressed and reluctantly went to bed: he ought to sleep. When he heard the footsteps of Yegor Semyonitch going out into the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and asked the footman to bring him some wine. He drank several glasses of Lafitte, then wrapped himself up, head and all; his consciousness grew clouded and he fell asleep. IV Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya often quarrelled and said nasty things to each other. They quarrelled about something
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for? What's the object of it?" "The fact speaks for itself." "I do not mean in that sense. I meant to ask: what will happen to the garden when I die? In the condition in which you see it now, it would not be maintained for one month without me. The whole secret of success lies not in its being a big garden or a great number of labourers being employed in it, but in the fact that I love the work. Do you understand? I love it perhaps more than myself. Look at me; I do everything myself. I work from morning to night: I do all the grafting myself, the pruning myself, the planting myself. I do it all myself: when any one helps me I am jealous and irritable till I am rude. The whole secret lies in loving it--that is, in the sharp eye of the master; yes, and in the master's hands, and in the feeling that makes one, when one goes anywhere for an hour's visit, sit, ill at ease, with one's heart far away, afraid that something may have happened in the garden. But when I die, who will look after it? Who will work? The gardener? The labourers? Yes? But I will tell you, my dear fellow, the worst enemy in the garden is not a hare, not a cockchafer, and not the frost, but any outside person." "And Tanya?" asked Kovrin, laughing. "She can't be more harmful than a hare? She loves the work and understands it." "Yes, she loves it and understands it. If after my death the garden goes to her and she is the mistress, of course nothing better could be wished. But if, which God forbid, she should marry," Yegor Semyonitch whispered, and looked with a frightened look at Kovrin, "that's just it. If she marries and children come, she will have no time to think about the garden. What I fear most is: she will marry some fine gentleman, and he will be greedy, and he will let the garden to people who will run it for profit, and everything will go to the devil the very first year! In our work females are the scourge of God!" Yegor Semyonitch sighed and paused for a while. "Perhaps it is egoism, but I tell you frankly: I don't want Tanya to get married. I am afraid of it! There is one young dandy comes to see us, bringing his violin and scraping on it; I know Tanya will not marry him, I know it quite well; but I can't bear to see him! Altogether, my boy, I am very queer. I know that." Yegor Semyonitch got up and walked about the room in excitement, and it was evident that he wanted to say something very important, but could not bring himself to it. "I am very fond of you, and so I am going to speak to you openly," he decided at last, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I deal plainly with certain delicate questions, and say exactly what I think, and I cannot endure so-called hidden thoughts. I will speak plainly: you are the only man to whom I should not be afraid to marry my daughter. You are a clever man with a good heart, and would not let my beloved work go to ruin; and the chief reason is that I love you as a son, and I am proud of you. If Tanya and you could get up a romance somehow, then--well! I should be very glad and even happy. I tell you this plainly, without mincing matters, like an honest man." Kovrin laughed. Yegor Semyonitch opened the door to go out, and stood in the doorway. "If Tanya and you had a son, I would make a horticulturist of him," he said, after a moment's thought. "However, this is idle dreaming. Goodnight." Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and took up the articles. The title of one was "On Intercropping" ; of another, "A few Words on the Remarks of Monsieur Z. concerning the Trenching of the Soil for a New Garden" ; a third, "Additional Matter concerning Grafting with a Dormant Bud" ; and they were all of the same sort. But what a restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion! Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so." He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like her father with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal and was fond of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however insignificant, with expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No doubt she was nervous in the extreme. Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing of them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with which he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and listened to the music was now mastering him again and rousing a multitude of thoughts. He got up and began walking about the room, thinking about the black monk. It occurred to him that if this strange, supernatural monk had appeared to him only, that meant that he was ill and had reached the point of having hallucinations. This reflection frightened him, but not for long. "But I am all right, and I am doing no harm to any one; so there is no harm in my hallucinations," he thought; and he felt happy again. He sat down on the sofa and clasped his hands round his head. Restraining the unaccountable joy which filled his whole being, he then paced up and down again, and sat down to his work. But the thought that he read in the book did not satisfy him. He wanted something gigantic, unfathomable, stupendous. Towards morning he undressed and reluctantly went to bed: he ought to sleep. When he heard the footsteps of Yegor Semyonitch going out into the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and asked the footman to bring him some wine. He drank several glasses of Lafitte, then wrapped himself up, head and all; his consciousness grew clouded and he fell asleep. IV Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya often quarrelled and said nasty things to each other. They quarrelled about something that morning. Tanya burst out crying and went to her room. She would not come down to dinner nor to tea. At first Yegor Semyonitch went about looking sulky and dignified, as though to give every one to understand that for him the claims of justice and good order were more important than anything else in the world; but he could not keep it up for long, and soon sank into depression. He walked about the park dejectedly, continually sighing: "Oh, my God! My God!" and at dinner did not eat a morsel. At last, guilty and conscience-stricken, he knocked at the locked door and called timidly: "Tanya! Tanya!" And from behind the door came a faint voice, weak with crying but still determined: "Leave me alone, if you please." The depression of the master and mistress was reflected in the whole household, even in the labourers working in the garden. Kovrin was absorbed in his interesting work, but at last he, too, felt dreary and uncomfortable. To dissipate the general ill-humour in some way, he made up his mind to intervene, and towards evening he knocked at Tanya's door. He was admitted. "Fie, fie, for shame!" he began playfully, looking with surprise at Tanya's tear-stained, woebegone face, flushed in patches with crying. "Is it really so serious? Fie, fie!" "But if you knew how he tortures me!" she said, and floods of scalding tears streamed from her big eyes. "He torments me to death," she went on, wringing her hands. "I said nothing to him ... nothing ... I only said that there was no need to keep ... too many labourers ... if we could hire them by the day when we wanted them. You know ... you know the labourers have been doing nothing for a whole week.... I ... I ... only said that, and he shouted and ... said ... a lot of horrible insulting things to me. What for?" "There, there," said Kovrin, smoothing her hair. "You've quarrelled with each other, you've cried, and that's enough. You must not be angry for long--that's wrong ... all the more as he loves you beyond everything." "He has ... has spoiled my whole life," Tanya went on, sobbing. "I hear nothing but abuse and ... insults. He thinks I am of no use in the house. Well! He is right. I shall go away to-morrow; I
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you this plainly, without mincing matters, like an honest man." Kovrin laughed. Yegor Semyonitch opened the door to go out, and stood in the doorway. "If Tanya and you had a son, I would make a horticulturist of him," he said, after a moment's thought. "However, this is idle dreaming. Goodnight." Left alone, Kovrin settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and took up the articles. The title of one was "On Intercropping" ; of another, "A few Words on the Remarks of Monsieur Z. concerning the Trenching of the Soil for a New Garden" ; a third, "Additional Matter concerning Grafting with a Dormant Bud" ; and they were all of the same sort. But what a restless, jerky tone! What nervous, almost hysterical passion! Here was an article, one would have thought, with most peaceable and impersonal contents: the subject of it was the Russian Antonovsky Apple. But Yegor Semyonitch began it with "Audiatur altera pars," and finished it with "Sapienti sat" ; and between these two quotations a perfect torrent of venomous phrases directed "at the learned ignorance of our recognised horticultural authorities, who observe Nature from the height of their university chairs," or at Monsieur Gaucher,<|quote|>"whose success has been the work of the vulgar and the dilettanti."</|quote|>And then followed an inappropriate, affected, and insincere regret that peasants who stole fruit and broke the branches could not nowadays be flogged. "It is beautiful, charming, healthy work, but even in this there is strife and passion," thought Kovrin, "I suppose that everywhere and in all careers men of ideas are nervous, and marked by exaggerated sensitiveness. Most likely it must be so." He thought of Tanya, who was so pleased with Yegor Semyonitch's articles. Small, pale, and so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out, her eyes, wide and open, dark and intelligent, had an intent gaze, as though looking for something. She walked like her father with a little hurried step. She talked a great deal and was fond of arguing, accompanying every phrase, however insignificant, with expressive mimicry and gesticulation. No doubt she was nervous in the extreme. Kovrin went on reading the articles, but he understood nothing of them, and flung them aside. The same pleasant excitement with which he had earlier in the evening danced the mazurka and listened to the music was now mastering him again and rousing a multitude of thoughts. He got up and began walking about the room, thinking about the black monk. It occurred to him that if this strange, supernatural monk had appeared to him only, that meant that he was ill and had reached the point of having hallucinations. This reflection frightened him, but not for long. "But I am all right, and I am doing no harm to any one; so there is no harm in my hallucinations," he thought; and he felt happy again. He sat down on the sofa and clasped his hands round his head. Restraining the unaccountable joy which filled his whole being, he then paced up and down again, and sat down to his work. But the thought that he read in the book did not satisfy him. He wanted something gigantic, unfathomable, stupendous. Towards morning he undressed and reluctantly went to bed: he ought to sleep. When he heard the footsteps of Yegor Semyonitch going out into the garden, Kovrin rang the bell and asked the footman to bring him some wine. He drank several glasses of Lafitte, then wrapped himself up, head and all; his consciousness grew clouded and he fell asleep. IV Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya often quarrelled and said nasty things to each other. They quarrelled about something that morning. Tanya burst out crying and went to her room. She would not come down to dinner nor to tea. At first Yegor Semyonitch went about looking sulky and dignified, as though to give every one to understand that for him the claims of justice and good order were more important than anything else in the world; but he could not keep it up for long, and soon sank into depression. He walked about the park dejectedly, continually sighing: "Oh, my God! My God!" and at dinner did not eat a morsel. At last, guilty and conscience-stricken, he knocked at the locked door and called timidly: "Tanya! Tanya!" And from behind the door came a
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The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (6)
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"To be sure,"
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Harriet Smith
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degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified
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imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so
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is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you
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was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before.
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a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. "Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might
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if I can help it." Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own. They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was. They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. "Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly. "But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already
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with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet." "To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year." "I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you." "Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do." "You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education." "To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it." Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own. They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was. They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. "Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference." "Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty." "Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?" "There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly. "But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss." "Will he, indeed? That will be very bad." "How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_." "I wonder he did not remember the book" "--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?" She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable. Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it. She feared
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appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was. They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose. "Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?" "He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real gentlemen." "I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here." "Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!" "Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_.
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Emma
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"Tell huh,"
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Fannie Hamilton
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who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey
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friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants
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walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said
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"Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet,
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well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly
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this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota of her dignity to one whom she had known so long as an inferior. "But don't you see what she can do for us, ma? She knows people that I know, and she can ruin me with them." "I ain't never bowed my haid to Minty Brown an' I ain't a-goin' to do it now," was his mother's only reply. "Oh, ma," Kitty put in, "you don't want to get talked about up here, do you?" "We 'd jes' as well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly unpleasant. "Mis' Hamilton," she said, "I 've had a talk with the lady downstairs, an' she 's tol' me everything. I 'd be glad if you 'd let me have my rooms as soon as possible." "So you goin' to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't
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was going on about her work and evidently knew nothing. "Oh, you need n't pretend you don't know her," she went on banteringly. "She says you were great friends down South, so I 've invited her to supper. She wants to see you." "To supper!" he thought. Was she mocking him? Was she restraining her scorn of him only to make his humiliation the greater after a while? He looked at her, but there was no suspicion of malice in her face, and he took hope. "Well, I 'd like to see old Minty," he said. "It 's been many a long day since I 've seen her." All that afternoon, after going to the barber-shop, Joe was driven by a tempest of conflicting emotions. If Minty Brown had not told his story, why not? Would she yet tell, and if she did, what would happen? He tortured himself by questioning if Hattie would cast him off. At the very thought his hand trembled, and the man in the chair asked him if he had n't been drinking. When he met Minty in the evening, however, the first glance at her reassured him. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she came forward and held out her hand. "Well, well, Joe Hamilton," she exclaimed, "if I ain't right-down glad to see you! How are you?" "I 'm middlin', Minty. How 's yourself?" He was so happy that he could n't let go her hand. "An' jes' look at the boy! Ef he ain't got the impidence to be waihin' a mustache too. You must 'a' been lettin' the cats lick yo' upper lip. Did n't expect to see me in New York, did you?" "No, indeed. What you doin' here?" "Oh, I got a gent'man friend what 's a porter, an' his run 's been changed so that he comes hyeah, an' he told me, if I wanted to come he 'd bring me thoo fur a visit, so, you see, hyeah I am. I allus was mighty anxious to see this hyeah town. But tell me, how 's Kit an' yo' ma?" "They 're both right well." He had forgotten them and their scorn of Minty. "Whaih do you live? I 'm comin' roun' to see 'em." He hesitated for a moment. He knew how his mother, if not Kit, would receive her, and yet he dared not anger this woman, who had his fate in the hollow of her hand. She saw his hesitation and spoke up. "Oh, that 's all right. Let by-gones be by-gones. You know I ain't the kin' o' person that holds a grudge ag'in anybody." "That 's right, Minty, that 's right," he said, and gave her his mother's address. Then he hastened home to prepare the way for Minty's coming. Joe had no doubt but that his mother would see the matter quite as he saw it, and be willing to temporise with Minty; but he had reckoned without his host. Mrs. Hamilton might make certain concessions to strangers on the score of expediency, but she absolutely refused to yield one iota of her dignity to one whom she had known so long as an inferior. "But don't you see what she can do for us, ma? She knows people that I know, and she can ruin me with them." "I ain't never bowed my haid to Minty Brown an' I ain't a-goin' to do it now," was his mother's only reply. "Oh, ma," Kitty put in, "you don't want to get talked about up here, do you?" "We 'd jes' as well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly unpleasant. "Mis' Hamilton," she said, "I 've had a talk with the lady downstairs, an' she 's tol' me everything. I 'd be glad if you 'd let me have my rooms as soon as possible." "So you goin' to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!" The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that
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talked about up here, do you?" "We 'd jes' as well be talked about fu' somep'n we did n't do as fu' somep'n we did do, an' it would n' be long befo' we 'd come to dat if we made frien's wid dat Brown gal. I ain't a-goin' to do it. I 'm ashamed o' you, Kitty, fu' wantin' me to." The girl began to cry, while her brother walked the floor angrily. "You 'll see what 'll happen," he cried; "you 'll see." Fannie looked at her son, and she seemed to see him more clearly than she had ever seen him before,--his foppery, his meanness, his cowardice. "Well," she answered with a sigh, "it can't be no wuss den what 's already happened." "You 'll see, you 'll see," the boy reiterated. Minty Brown allowed no wind of thought to cool the fire of her determination. She left Hattie Sterling's soon after Joe, and he was still walking the floor and uttering dire forebodings when she rang the bell below and asked for the Hamiltons. Mrs. Jones ushered her into her fearfully upholstered parlour, and then puffed up stairs to tell her lodgers that there was a friend there from the South who wanted to see them.<|quote|>"Tell huh,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hamilton, "dat dey ain't no one hyeah wants to see huh." "No, no," Kitty broke in. "Heish," said her mother; "I 'm goin' to boss you a little while yit." "Why, I don't understan' you, Mis' Hamilton," puffed Mrs. Jones. "She 's a nice-lookin' lady, an' she said she knowed you at home." "All you got to do is to tell dat ooman jes' what I say." Minty Brown downstairs had heard the little colloquy, and, perceiving that something was amiss, had come to the stairs to listen. Now her voice, striving hard to be condescending and sweet, but growing harsh with anger, floated up from below: "Oh, nevah min', lady, I ain't anxious to see 'em. I jest called out o' pity, but I reckon dey 'shamed to see me 'cause de ol' man 's in penitentiary an' dey was run out o' town." Mrs. Jones gasped, and then turned and went hastily downstairs. Kit burst out crying afresh, and Joe walked the floor muttering beneath his breath, while the mother sat grimly watching the outcome. Finally they heard Mrs. Jones' step once more on the stairs. She came in without knocking, and her manner was distinctly unpleasant. "Mis' Hamilton," she said, "I 've had a talk with the lady downstairs, an' she 's tol' me everything. I 'd be glad if you 'd let me have my rooms as soon as possible." "So you goin' to put me out on de wo'd of a stranger?" "I 'm kin' o' sorry, but everybody in the house heard what Mis' Brown said, an' it 'll soon be all over town, an' that 'ud ruin the reputation of my house." "I reckon all dat kin be 'splained." "Yes, but I don't know that anybody kin 'splain your daughter allus being with Mr. Thomas, who ain't even divo'ced from his wife." She flashed a vindictive glance at the girl, who turned deadly pale and dropped her head in her hands. "You daih to say dat, Mis' Jones, you dat fust interduced my gal to dat man and got huh to go out wid him? I reckon you 'd bettah go now." And Mrs. Jones looked at Fannie's face and obeyed. As soon as the woman's back was turned, Joe burst out, "There, there! see what you 've done with your damned foolishness." Fannie turned on him like a tigress. "Don't you cuss hyeah befo' me; I ain't nevah brung you up to it, an' I won't stan' it. Go to dem whaih you larned it, an whaih de wo'ds soun' sweet." The boy started to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to
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The Sport Of The Gods
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she answered. He thrust his head through the door.
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No speaker
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by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out
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a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What
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gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she
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I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to
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Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like
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over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to
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again as Mademoiselle Reisz's playing moved me to-night. I wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night." "There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't you know this was the twenty-eighth of August?" "The twenty-eighth of August?" "Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shining the moon must be shining a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her divine presence." "Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. "Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked. "I'll stay out here. Good-night." "Shall I get you a pillow?" "There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. "It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about." "No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars. Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the house. "Are you coming in, L once?" she asked, turning her face toward her husband. "Yes, dear," he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. "Just as soon as I have finished my cigar." XII She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility. Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who intended to go over to the _Ch ni re_ for mass, were moving about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her. The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine was sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. Edna sent her
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the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. "Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked. "I'll stay out here. Good-night." "Shall I get you a pillow?" "There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. "It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about." "No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. "Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. "If you wish. Don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?" "Are you chilly?" "No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed. "Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?" "I don't know. Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?" "I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. XI "What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down close to look at her. "No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room. "Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by. "Don't wait for me,"<|quote|>she answered. He thrust his head through the door.</|quote|>"You will take cold out there," he said, irritably. "What folly is this? Why don't you come in?" "It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you." "There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us. "Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty. "No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out. "I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly." With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then did. "L once, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you." Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine
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The Awakening
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"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."
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Mrs. Bennet
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year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear,
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men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty,
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They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
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but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest
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will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference." "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, "I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy." "We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit." "But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth,
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occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party." "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty." "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of." "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood." "It is more than I engage for, I assure you." "But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not." "You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference." "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, "I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy." "We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit." "But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him." "I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her." "No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you." Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. "Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces." "Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times them ill." "I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?" "To-morrow fortnight." "Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself." "Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_." "Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible,
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CHAPTER I. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. "My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?" Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. "But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it." Mr. Bennet made no answer. "Do not you want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently. "_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it." This was invitation enough. "Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week." "What is his name?" "Bingley." "Is he married or single?" "Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!" "How so? how can it affect them?" "My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them." "Is that his design in settling here?" "Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes." "I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party." "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty." "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of." "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood." "It is more than I engage for, I assure you." "But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not." "You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference." "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, "I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy." "We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit." "But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him." "I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her." "No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you." Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. "Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces." "Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times them ill." "I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?" "To-morrow fortnight." "Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself." "Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_." "Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teazing?" "I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself." The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense, nonsense!" "What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you, Mary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great books, and make extracts." Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. "While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr. Bingley." "I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife. "I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now." The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while. "How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a word about it till now." "Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse," said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. "What an excellent father you have, girls," said she, when the door was shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me either, for that matter. At
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for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party." "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty." "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of." "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood." "It is more than I engage for, I assure you." "But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit him, if you do not." "You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy." "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference." "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters." "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves." "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least." "Ah! you do not know what I suffer." "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not visit them."</|quote|>"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all." Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. CHAPTER II. Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, "I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy." "We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit." "But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him." "I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her." "No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you." Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. "Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces." "Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times them ill." "I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?" "To-morrow fortnight." "Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself." "Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_." "Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teazing?" "I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself." The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense, nonsense!" "What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense?
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Pride And Prejudice
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"Yes."
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Signor Carella
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him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you
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and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way."
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change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The
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poor and have to work for their living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated. "How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes. "Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn t I know them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn t that your foreign way?" He did not think it would
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for you. Many of them are in trade, and even we are little more; you should have gentlefolk and nobility for your friends." "Poor fellow," thought Lilia. "It is sad for him to discover that his people are vulgar." She began to tell him that she loved him just for his silly self, and he flushed and began tugging at his moustache. "But besides your relatives I must have other people here. Your friends have wives and sisters, haven t they?" "Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them." "Not know your friends people?" "Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated. "How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes. "Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn t I know them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn t that your foreign way?" He did not think it would make it easier. "But I must know some one! Who were the men you were talking to this afternoon?" Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names. "But, Gino dear, if they re low class, why did you talk to them? Don t you care about your position?" All Gino cared about at present was idleness and pocket-money, and his way of expressing it was to exclaim, "Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; I sweat all over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get to sleep." In his funny abrupt way he ran
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disconsolately. "Oh, you idle boy!" she cried, pinching his muscles. "Go and play pallone." "I am a married man," he answered, without raising his head. "I do not play games any more." "Go and see your friends then." "I have no friends now." "Silly, silly, silly! You can t stop indoors all day!" "I want to see no one but you." He spat on to an olive-tree. "Now, Gino, don t be silly. Go and see your friends, and bring them to see me. We both of us like society." He looked puzzled, but allowed himself to be persuaded, went out, found that he was not as friendless as he supposed, and returned after several hours in altered spirits. Lilia congratulated herself on her good management. "I m ready, too, for people now," she said. "I mean to wake you all up, just as I woke up Sawston. Let s have plenty of men--and make them bring their womenkind. I mean to have real English tea-parties." "There is my aunt and her husband; but I thought you did not want to receive my relatives." "I never said such a--" "But you would be right," he said earnestly. "They are not for you. Many of them are in trade, and even we are little more; you should have gentlefolk and nobility for your friends." "Poor fellow," thought Lilia. "It is sad for him to discover that his people are vulgar." She began to tell him that she loved him just for his silly self, and he flushed and began tugging at his moustache. "But besides your relatives I must have other people here. Your friends have wives and sisters, haven t they?" "Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them." "Not know your friends people?" "Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated. "How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes. "Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn t I know them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn t that your foreign way?" He did not think it would make it easier. "But I must know some one! Who were the men you were talking to this afternoon?" Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names. "But, Gino dear, if they re low class, why did you talk to them? Don t you care about your position?" All Gino cared about at present was idleness and pocket-money, and his way of expressing it was to exclaim, "Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; I sweat all over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get to sleep." In his funny abrupt way he ran out on to the loggia, where he lay full length on the parapet, and began to smoke and spit under the silence of the stars. Lilia gathered somehow from this conversation that Continental society was not the go-as-you-please thing she had expected. Indeed she could not see where Continental society was. Italy is such a delightful place to live in if you happen to be a man. There one may enjoy that exquisite luxury of Socialism--that true Socialism which is based not on equality of income or character, but on the equality of manners. In the democracy of the caffe or the street the great question of our life has been solved, and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under
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with nothing to do except give orders to smiling workpeople, and a devoted husband as interpreter. She wrote a jaunty account of her happiness to Mrs. Herriton, and Harriet answered the letter, saying (1) that all future communications should be addressed to the solicitors; (2) would Lilia return an inlaid box which Harriet had lent her--but not given--to keep handkerchiefs and collars in? "Look what I am giving up to live with you!" she said to Gino, never omitting to lay stress on her condescension. He took her to mean the inlaid box, and said that she need not give it up at all. "Silly fellow, no! I mean the life. Those Herritons are very well connected. They lead Sawston society. But what do I care, so long as I have my silly fellow!" She always treated him as a boy, which he was, and as a fool, which he was not, thinking herself so immeasurably superior to him that she neglected opportunity after opportunity of establishing her rule. He was good-looking and indolent; therefore he must be stupid. He was poor; therefore he would never dare to criticize his benefactress. He was passionately in love with her; therefore she could do exactly as she liked. "It mayn t be heaven below," she thought, "but it s better than Charles." And all the time the boy was watching her, and growing up. She was reminded of Charles by a disagreeable letter from the solicitors, bidding her disgorge a large sum of money for Irma, in accordance with her late husband s will. It was just like Charles s suspicious nature to have provided against a second marriage. Gino was equally indignant, and between them they composed a stinging reply, which had no effect. He then said that Irma had better come out and live with them. "The air is good, so is the food; she will be happy here, and we shall not have to part with the money." But Lilia had not the courage even to suggest this to the Herritons, and an unexpected terror seized her at the thought of Irma or any English child being educated at Monteriano. Gino became terribly depressed over the solicitors letter, more depressed than she thought necessary. There was no more to do in the house, and he spent whole days in the loggia leaning over the parapet or sitting astride it disconsolately. "Oh, you idle boy!" she cried, pinching his muscles. "Go and play pallone." "I am a married man," he answered, without raising his head. "I do not play games any more." "Go and see your friends then." "I have no friends now." "Silly, silly, silly! You can t stop indoors all day!" "I want to see no one but you." He spat on to an olive-tree. "Now, Gino, don t be silly. Go and see your friends, and bring them to see me. We both of us like society." He looked puzzled, but allowed himself to be persuaded, went out, found that he was not as friendless as he supposed, and returned after several hours in altered spirits. Lilia congratulated herself on her good management. "I m ready, too, for people now," she said. "I mean to wake you all up, just as I woke up Sawston. Let s have plenty of men--and make them bring their womenkind. I mean to have real English tea-parties." "There is my aunt and her husband; but I thought you did not want to receive my relatives." "I never said such a--" "But you would be right," he said earnestly. "They are not for you. Many of them are in trade, and even we are little more; you should have gentlefolk and nobility for your friends." "Poor fellow," thought Lilia. "It is sad for him to discover that his people are vulgar." She began to tell him that she loved him just for his silly self, and he flushed and began tugging at his moustache. "But besides your relatives I must have other people here. Your friends have wives and sisters, haven t they?" "Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them." "Not know your friends people?" "Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated. "How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes. "Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn t I know them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn t that your foreign way?" He did not think it would make it easier. "But I must know some one! Who were the men you were talking to this afternoon?" Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names. "But, Gino dear, if they re low class, why did you talk to them? Don t you care about your position?" All Gino cared about at present was idleness and pocket-money, and his way of expressing it was to exclaim, "Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; I sweat all over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get to sleep." In his funny abrupt way he ran out on to the loggia, where he lay full length on the parapet, and began to smoke and spit under the silence of the stars. Lilia gathered somehow from this conversation that Continental society was not the go-as-you-please thing she had expected. Indeed she could not see where Continental society was. Italy is such a delightful place to live in if you happen to be a man. There one may enjoy that exquisite luxury of Socialism--that true Socialism which is based not on equality of income or character, but on the equality of manners. In the democracy of the caffe or the street the great question of our life has been solved, and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop your h s, and nobody will think the worse of either. Meanwhile the women--they have, of course, their house and their church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one consolation emerges--life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man. Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so much older than he was, and so much richer, that he regarded her as a superior being who answered to other laws. He was not wholly surprised, for strange rumours were always blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the same amusements and interests, and he had often met that privileged maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks. Lilia took solitary walks too, and only that week a tramp had grabbed at her watch--an episode which is supposed to be indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent there than in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was inevitably losing his awe: no one could live with her and keep it, especially when she had been so silly as to lose a gold watch and chain. As he lay thoughtful along the parapet, he realized for the first time the responsibilities of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical and social, for after all she was a woman. "And I," he reflected, "though I am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right." He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances. "You must not go out alone," he said gently. "It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you." Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. "Very well," smiled Lilia, "very well" "--as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for
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will. It was just like Charles s suspicious nature to have provided against a second marriage. Gino was equally indignant, and between them they composed a stinging reply, which had no effect. He then said that Irma had better come out and live with them. "The air is good, so is the food; she will be happy here, and we shall not have to part with the money." But Lilia had not the courage even to suggest this to the Herritons, and an unexpected terror seized her at the thought of Irma or any English child being educated at Monteriano. Gino became terribly depressed over the solicitors letter, more depressed than she thought necessary. There was no more to do in the house, and he spent whole days in the loggia leaning over the parapet or sitting astride it disconsolately. "Oh, you idle boy!" she cried, pinching his muscles. "Go and play pallone." "I am a married man," he answered, without raising his head. "I do not play games any more." "Go and see your friends then." "I have no friends now." "Silly, silly, silly! You can t stop indoors all day!" "I want to see no one but you." He spat on to an olive-tree. "Now, Gino, don t be silly. Go and see your friends, and bring them to see me. We both of us like society." He looked puzzled, but allowed himself to be persuaded, went out, found that he was not as friendless as he supposed, and returned after several hours in altered spirits. Lilia congratulated herself on her good management. "I m ready, too, for people now," she said. "I mean to wake you all up, just as I woke up Sawston. Let s have plenty of men--and make them bring their womenkind. I mean to have real English tea-parties." "There is my aunt and her husband; but I thought you did not want to receive my relatives." "I never said such a--" "But you would be right," he said earnestly. "They are not for you. Many of them are in trade, and even we are little more; you should have gentlefolk and nobility for your friends." "Poor fellow," thought Lilia. "It is sad for him to discover that his people are vulgar." She began to tell him that she loved him just for his silly self, and he flushed and began tugging at his moustache. "But besides your relatives I must have other people here. Your friends have wives and sisters, haven t they?" "Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them." "Not know your friends people?" "Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their living I may see them--but not otherwise. Except--" He stopped. The chief exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the acquaintance terminated. "How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, and I will make them bring their people." He looked at her rather hopelessly. "Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?" The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted him. "Well, are they married?"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"There we are. Do you know them?" "Yes--in a way." "I see," she exclaimed angrily. "They look down on you, do they, poor boy? Wait!" He assented. "Wait! I ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?" "The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church." "Married?" "The canons--" he began with twinkling eyes. "Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of everything. But why shouldn t I know them? Would it make it easier if I called all round? Isn t that your foreign way?" He did not think it would make it easier. "But I must know some one! Who were the men you were talking to this afternoon?" Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names. "But, Gino dear, if they re low class, why did you talk to them? Don t you care about your position?" All Gino cared about at present was idleness and pocket-money, and his way of expressing it was to exclaim, "Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; I sweat all over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get to sleep." In his funny abrupt way he ran out on to the loggia, where he lay full length on the parapet, and began to smoke and spit under the silence of the stars. Lilia gathered somehow from this conversation that Continental society was not the go-as-you-please thing she had expected. Indeed she could not see where Continental society was. Italy is such a delightful place to live in if you happen to be a man. There one may enjoy that exquisite luxury of Socialism--that true Socialism which is based not on equality of income or character, but on the equality of manners. In the democracy of the caffe or the street the great question of our life has been solved, and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop your h s, and nobody will think the worse of either. Meanwhile the women--they have, of course, their house and their church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one consolation emerges--life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man. Hitherto Gino had
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."
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Brett Ashley
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myself." "Oh, rot! Come on."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"Come and have a drink,
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to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might
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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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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
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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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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
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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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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
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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," Bill said. "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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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
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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," Bill said. "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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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 right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my God!" "You'll be rich." "I hope so." After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the "quaint" features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. "You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes," Madame Lecomte said. "Too many compatriots." "Come at lunch-time. It's not crowded then." "Good. I'll be down soon." We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orl ans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. "They're going to cut a street through." "They would," Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. "It's pretty grand," Bill said. "God, I love to get back." We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with
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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," Bill said. "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."<|quote|>"Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine."</|quote|>"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 right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. "Doesn't get us a table, though," Bill said. "Grand woman, though." We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. "You've got the world here all right," Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. "Oh, my
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The Sun Also Rises
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"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."
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Harriet Smith
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Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with
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the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that
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were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies,
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approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed
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"that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with
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own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly." "Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill." "I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and
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to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--" "is not this the oddest news that ever was?" "What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You" (blushing as she spoke) "who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly." "Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill." "I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure." Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said, "Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?" "Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--" "I must say that I have." Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself! Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her
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to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"<|quote|>"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."</|quote|>"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory." "Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No!" (with some elevation) "I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth." "Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?" "You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--" She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. "I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to
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Emma
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"Where are the enemy, Jem?"
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Don Lavington
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At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"Enemy, indeed!" growled Jem. "Savages
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as he tried to think. At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"Enemy, indeed!" growled Jem. "Savages like them don't deserve such
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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.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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
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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.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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
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children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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
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"Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where is Ngati?" whispered Don at last. "Half killed, or dead, Mas' Don," said Jem, sadly. "We're reg'lar beat. But, my word, Mas' Don, I am sorry." "Sorry? Of course." "Ah! But I mean for all I said about the poor fellows. I thought they couldn't fight." "The women and children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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
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beaten, Jem." "I'm sure of it, my lad. My right hand, too; I can't hit with it. Wish we was all going to run away now." "Do you, Jem?" "Ay, that I do; only we couldn't run away and leave the women and children, even if they are beaten." A terrible yelling and shrieking arose at that moment from behind where they stood, and as they turned, it was to see the whole of the defenders, headed by Tomati, making a rush for one portion of the fence where some of the stout poles had given way. A breach had been made, and yelling like furies, the enemy were pouring through in a crowd. CHAPTER FORTY. DEFEATED. Two minutes at the outside must have been the lapse of time before the last spear held up in defence of the _pah_ was lowered by its brave owner in weakness, despair, or death. Tomati's men fought with desperate valour, but they were so reduced that the enemy were four to one; and as they were driven back step by step, till they were huddled together in one corner of the _pah_, the slaughter was frightful. Stirred to fury at seeing the poor fellows drop, both Don and Jem had made unskilful use of their weapons, for they were unwillingly mingled with the crowd of defenders, and driven with them into the corner of the great enclosure. One minute they were surrounded by panting, desperate men, using their spears valorously, as the Greeks might have used theirs in days of old; then there came a rush, a horrible crowding together, a sensation to Don as if some mountain had suddenly fallen on his head to crush out the hideous din of yelling and despairing shrieks, and then all was darkness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was still darkness, but the stars were shining brightly overhead, when Don opened his eyes again to begin wondering why his head should ache so terribly, and he should feel so cold. Those thoughts were only momentary, for a colder chill ran through him as on both sides of where he lay a low moaning sound arose, as of some one in pain. "Where am I?" he thought. "What is the matter?" Then he realised what had happened, for a familiar voice said almost in a whisper,-- "Poor little Sally! I wish she was here with a bit of rag." "Jem!" "Mas' Don! Oh! Thank the Lord! Amen! I thought--I thought--Oh! Oh!" A choking sensation rose in Don's throat, for he could hear close beside him the brave, true fellow sobbing like a woman. "Jem! Jem, old chap!" whispered Don. "Don't, pray don't do that." "I'm a-trying not to as hard as ever I can," whispered the poor fellow hoarsely; "but I've been bleeding like a pig, Mas' Don, and it's made me as weak as a great gal. You see I thought as you was dead." "No, no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where is Ngati?" whispered Don at last. "Half killed, or dead, Mas' Don," said Jem, sadly. "We're reg'lar beat. But, my word, Mas' Don, I am sorry." "Sorry? Of course." "Ah! But I mean for all I said about the poor fellows. I thought they couldn't fight." "The women and children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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." "It is very, very horrible, Jem." "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.
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no, Jem; I'm here safe, only--only my head aches, and I can't get my hands free." "No, my lad, more can't I. We're both tied up, hands and legs." "But the others? Where is Tomati?" "Don't ask me, my lad." "Oh, Jem!" There was a few minutes' awful silence, during which the low moaning sound went on from different places close at hand. "Where is Ngati?" whispered Don at last. "Half killed, or dead, Mas' Don," said Jem, sadly. "We're reg'lar beat. But, my word, Mas' Don, I am sorry." "Sorry? Of course." "Ah! But I mean for all I said about the poor fellows. I thought they couldn't fight." "The women and children, Jem?" "All prisoners, 'cept some as would fight, and they--" "Yes--go on." "They served them same as they did those poor chaps as wouldn't give in." "How horrible!" "Ah, 'tis horrid, my lad; and I've been wishing we hadn't cut and run. We was better off on board ship." "It's of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?" "Hand's all cut about with that pistol busting, and there's a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas' Don. Not much hurt, are you?" "I don't know, Jem. I can remember nothing." "Good job for you, my lad. One of 'em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he'd killed you, so I--" Jem ceased speaking. "Well, go on," whispered Don. "That's all," said Jem, sullenly. "But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me." "Was I? Ah, well, I forget now." Don was silent, for Jem had given him something terrible to dwell upon as he tried to think. At last he spoke again.<|quote|>"Where are the enemy, Jem?"</|quote|>"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
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Don Lavington
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"Laura. Here!"
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Laura Lavington
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said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother
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"That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The
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he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the
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her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things."
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as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will
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chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the
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was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?" "I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together
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directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly.<|quote|>"Laura. Here!"</|quote|>Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment
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Don Lavington
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"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."
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Mrs. Rattery
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can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play
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of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I
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a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to
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cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was
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snap." "Pity." "There's Marjorie and several people I ought to wire to, but I'd better wait until I know that Jock has seen Brenda. Suppose she was with Marjorie when the telegram arrived." "You've got to try and stop thinking about things. Can you throw craps?" "No." "That's easy; I'll show you. There'll be some dice in the backgammon board." "I'm all right, really. I'd sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs
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"It's a pity you don't play patience," said Mrs Rattery. "In a way I shall feel happier when she knows... it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know... I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five... I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small." Mrs Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. "It's a heart-breaking game," she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me." "Do you play bezique?" "I'm afraid not." "Or piquet?" "No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap." "Pity." "There's Marjorie and several people I ought to wire to, but I'd better wait until I know that Jock has seen Brenda. Suppose she was with Marjorie when the telegram arrived." "You've got to try and stop thinking about things. Can you throw craps?" "No." "That's easy; I'll show you. There'll be some dice in the backgammon board." "I'm all right, really. I'd sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs
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thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen, Jock coming and her surprise at seeing him, and then his telling her... It's awful for Jock... She may know at half-past five or a bit earlier." "It's a pity you don't play patience," said Mrs Rattery. "In a way I shall feel happier when she knows... it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know... I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five... I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small." Mrs Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. "It's a heart-breaking game," she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me." "Do you play bezique?" "I'm afraid not." "Or piquet?" "No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap." "Pity." "There's Marjorie and several people I ought to wire to, but I'd better wait until I know that Jock has seen Brenda. Suppose she was with Marjorie when the telegram arrived." "You've got to try and stop thinking about things. Can you throw craps?" "No." "That's easy; I'll show you. There'll be some dice in the backgammon board." "I'm all right, really. I'd sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?" "I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?" "I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder
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she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me." "Do you play bezique?" "I'm afraid not." "Or piquet?" "No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap." "Pity." "There's Marjorie and several people I ought to wire to, but I'd better wait until I know that Jock has seen Brenda. Suppose she was with Marjorie when the telegram arrived." "You've got to try and stop thinking about things. Can you throw craps?" "No." "That's easy; I'll show you. There'll be some dice in the backgammon board." "I'm all right, really. I'd sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?"<|quote|>"There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up."</|quote|>"I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I suppose the paper."
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Margaret
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of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is
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s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way
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"They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it
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said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?" "Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address.
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build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?" "Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby
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hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?" "Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?" "Hasn t she, though! What used to be the hall s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are
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No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn t even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up--just like all of your sex. Well, no harm s done. She has had her country wedding, and I ve got rid of my goose to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school." "Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere." "I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?" Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task! "It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring." "If possible, something permanent. I can t be as young as I was, for these alterations don t suit me." "But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism?" "I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive." "What a practical little woman it is! What s it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?" "Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?" "Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?" "Hasn t she, though! What used to be the hall s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother s, and are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases." "I say she s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie." "I hadn t heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations. "Didn t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and then--oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote." "But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn t like her to do such a heartless thing." "But the present was so expensive." "Why does that make any difference, Dolly?" "Still, when it costs over five pounds--I didn t see it, but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can t very well accept that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?" "You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married." "Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff--not worth a halfpenny. Evie s was quite different. You d have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie didn t want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble." "But Miss Avery said--" Dolly s eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop and threw it into the duck-pond." "Did she give any reasons?" "We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society." "She s rather old for that," said Margaret pensively. "May she not have given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?" "That s a notion. Give every one their due, eh? Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff--you want a new coat, but I don t know who ll give it you, I m
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have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret. "Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?" "Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps.<|quote|>"I suppose the paper."</|quote|>"And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?" "Hasn t she, though! What used to be the hall s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over
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Howards End
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"My pakeha!"
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Ngati
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you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly.
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nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is
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Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist
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time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm
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down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you
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snap of the fierce jaws--another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt. Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side. Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a
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churned up by the desperate struggles of the drowning pair. It was as if myriads of tiny stars started into being where all was dark before, and went hurrying here and there, some to the surface, others deep down into the transparent purity of the sea. A minute before Jem Wimble had kept command of himself, and swam as a carefully tutored man keeps himself afloat; that minute passed, all teaching was forgotten in a weak, frantic struggle with the strangling water which closed over their heads. A few moments, during which the phosphorescent tiny creatures played here and there, and then once more the two helpless and nearly exhausted fugitives were beating the surface, which flashed and sent forth lambent rays of light. But it was not there alone that the phosphorescence of the sea was visible. About a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be a double line of pale gold liquid fire changing into bluish green, and between the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly. The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling. Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned. And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light. Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning, nor was the light seen as it glided on nearer and nearer, till it reached the spot. One dart from the long raised neck, one snap of the fierce jaws--another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt. Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side. Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.--Here, what are they going to do?" "Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold. "There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound." "Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem. "Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you." "Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly. "Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug." "Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha." "Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done." The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives. "Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things." "He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem. "No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over." The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand. Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people. "My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow." "Eh?" said Jem harshly. "My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?" "He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any." "No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any." The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and
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behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning, nor was the light seen as it glided on nearer and nearer, till it reached the spot. One dart from the long raised neck, one snap of the fierce jaws--another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt. Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side. Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up. "Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone. "Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged. "Mas' Don--don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don. "Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper. "No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?" "Hail sooner?" said Jem. "Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see." "We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us." "Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you." "And shall you give us up?" "Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."<|quote|>"My pakeha!"</|quote|>cried the big chief excitedly. "That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem. "No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once." "Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference. The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising. "Jem! Where's Jem?" "Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe." "Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?" "Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief. "Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, `_My pakeha_' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth." "Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water." "I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone." "All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?" "My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck." "Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?" "Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?" "I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or--I say, did you feel anything of 'em?" "Feel anything--of what?" said Don. "Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them." "Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath. "Yes. Didn't you know?" "I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don. "So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards." "Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!" "Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas'
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Don Lavington
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"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"
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Duchess Of Monmouth
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it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious.
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"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what
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something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry.
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You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can t tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray
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to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can t tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won t you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord
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the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I don t love her." "And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. "You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." "The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can t tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won t you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew," she said at last. He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." "One may lose one s way." "All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." "What is that?" "Disillusion." "It was my _d but_ in life," she sighed. "It came to you crowned." "I am tired of strawberry leaves." "They become you." "Only in public." "You would miss them," said Lord Henry. "I will not part with a petal." "Monmouth has ears." "Old age is dull of hearing." "Has he never been jealous?" "I wish he had been." He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking for?" she inquired. "The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." She laughed. "I have still the mask." "It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Upstairs, in his own
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"It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen." "What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, it can t be helped. It was the man s own fault. Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter." Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you." "There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don t laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don t you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I don t love her." "And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. "You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." "The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can t tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won t you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew," she said at last. He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." "One may lose one s way." "All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." "What is that?" "Disillusion." "It was my _d but_ in life," she sighed. "It came to you crowned." "I am tired of strawberry leaves." "They become you." "Only in public." "You would miss them," said Lord Henry. "I will not part with a petal." "Monmouth has ears." "Old age is dull of hearing." "Has he never been jealous?" "I wish he had been." He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking for?" she inquired. "The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." She laughed. "I have still the mask." "It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. At five o clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after some moments hesitation. As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer and spread it out before him. "I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. "Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. "Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?" asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." "We don t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of coming to you about." "Don t know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean? Wasn t he one of your men?" "No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir." The pen dropped from Dorian Gray s hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say a sailor?" "Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing." "Was there anything found on
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and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I don t love her." "And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. "You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." "The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." "Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you." "I can t tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "What nonsense!" "I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered.<|quote|>"Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"</|quote|>"Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won t you?" They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew," she said at last. He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." "One may lose one s way." "All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." "What is that?" "Disillusion." "It was my _d but_ in life," she sighed. "It came to you crowned." "I am tired of strawberry leaves." "They become you." "Only in public." "You would miss them," said Lord Henry. "I will not part with a petal." "Monmouth has ears." "Old age is dull of hearing." "Has he never been jealous?" "I wish he had been." He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking for?" she inquired. "The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." She laughed. "I have still the mask." "It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. At
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The Picture Of Dorian Gray
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Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.
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No speaker
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Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were
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"Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old
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and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the
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he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse
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maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door,
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try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the
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that some people would have felt disposed to awaken the sleeper by administering a sound slap upon the hard round cheek. One hour, two hours, three hours passed away, and still no Don; and at last, unable to bear the company of the snoring woman longer, Kitty left her and went into the drawing-room, where, kneeling down at the end of the couch under the window, she remained watching the dark street, waiting for him who did not come. Kitty watched till the street began to look less dark and gloomy, and by degrees the other side became so plain that she could make out the bricks on the opposite walls. Then they grew plainer and plainer, and there was a bright light in the sky, for the sun was near to its rising. Then they grew less plain, then quite indistinct, for Kitty was crying bitterly, and she found herself wondering whether Don could have come in and gone to bed. A little thought told her that this was impossible, and the tears fell faster still. Where could he be? What could he be doing? Ought she to awaken her aunt? Kitty could not answer these self-imposed questions, and as her misery and despair grew greater it seemed as if the morning was growing very cold and the bricks of the houses opposite more and more obscure, and then soon after they were quite invisible, for she saw them not. CHAPTER NINE. A SOCIAL THUNDERBOLT. "Morning!" said Uncle Josiah, as, after a turn up and down the dining-room, he saw the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. "Why, Laura, you have not been to bed." "Yes," she said sadly. "I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago." "Glad of it," said her brother bluffly. "That's right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day." Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone," sobbed his sister. "Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that
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the door open and his sister enter, looking very pale and red-eyed. "Why, Laura, you have not been to bed." "Yes," she said sadly. "I kept my word, and now I feel sorry that I did, for I fell into a heavy sleep from which I did not wake till half an hour ago." "Glad of it," said her brother bluffly. "That's right, my dear, make the tea; I want my breakfast, for I have plenty of work to-day." Mrs Lavington hastily made the tea, for the urn was hissing on the table when she came down, Uncle Josiah's orders being that it was always to be ready at eight o'clock, and woe betide Jessie if it was not there. "Have--have you seen Don this morning?" "No. And when he comes down I shall not say a word. There, try and put a better face on the matter, my dear. He will have to appear at the magistrate's office, and there will be a few admonitions. That's all. Isn't Kitty late?" "Yes. Shall I send up for her?" "No; she will be down in a few minutes, I daresay, and Lindon too." The few minutes passed, and Uncle Josiah looked stern. Then he rang for the servants, and his brow grew more heavy. Neither Kitty nor Lindon down to prayers. "Shall I send up, Josiah?" "No; they know what time we have prayers," said the old man sternly; and upon the servants entering he read his customary chapter and the prayers, but no one stole in while the service was in progress, and when it was over the old merchant looked more severe than ever. Mrs Lavington looked more troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go."<|quote|>Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs.</|quote|>"Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to."
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Don Lavington
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"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"
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Jake Barnes
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"Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he
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the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to
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all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No,
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for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted
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been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl." I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening. "Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had
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I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had discovered writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium. I first became aware of his lady's attitude toward him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l'Avenue's and afterward went to the Caf de Versailles for coffee. We had several _fines_ after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. "I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town," I said. Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went on: "She's been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl." I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening. "Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and
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into a rather unattractive mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-painter. As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock. The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In California he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little of the fifty thousand left, in a short time he was backing a review of the Arts. The review commenced publication in Carmel, California, and finished in Provincetown, Massachusetts. By that time Cohn, who had been regarded purely as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the editorial page merely as a member of the advisory board, had become the sole editor. It was his money and he discovered he liked the authority of editing. He was sorry when the magazine became too expensive and he had to give it up. By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine. She was very forceful, and Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand. Also he was sure that he loved her. When this lady saw that the magazine was not going to rise, she became a little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might as well get what there was to get while there was still something available, so she urged that they go to Europe, where Cohn could write. They came to Europe, where the lady had been educated, and stayed three years. During these three years, the first spent in travel, the last two in Paris, Robert Cohn had two friends, Braddocks and myself. Braddocks was his literary friend. I was his tennis friend. The lady who had him, her name was Frances, found toward the end of the second year that her looks were going, and her attitude toward Robert changed from one of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute determination that he should marry her. During this time Robert's mother had settled an allowance on him, about three hundred dollars a month. During two years and a half I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had discovered writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium. I first became aware of his lady's attitude toward him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l'Avenue's and afterward went to the Caf de Versailles for coffee. We had several _fines_ after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. "I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town," I said. Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went on: "She's been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl." I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening. "Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I said. "Did you come in to cheer me up?" "Would you like to go to South America, Jake?" he asked. "No." "Why not?" "I don't know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway." "They're not the real South Americans." "They look awfully real to me." I had a boat train to catch with a week's mail stories, and only half of them written. "Do you know any dirt?" I asked. "No." "None of your exalted connections getting divorces?" "No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?" "Why me?" "You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us." "No," I said, "I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time." "All my life I've wanted to go on a trip like that," Cohn said. He sat down. "I'll be too old before I can ever do it." "Don't be a fool," I said. "You can go anywhere you want. You've got plenty of money." "I know. But I can't get started." "Cheer up," I said. "All countries look just like the moving pictures." But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. "I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it." "Nobody ever lives their life all
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writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium. I first became aware of his lady's attitude toward him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l'Avenue's and afterward went to the Caf de Versailles for coffee. We had several _fines_ after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. "I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town," I said. Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went on: "She's been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She's a swell girl." I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert's lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening. "Hell," I said, "why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes." Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. "For God's sake," he said, "why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn't you see Frances?" "No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?" "It doesn't make any difference. Any girl. I couldn't go, that would be all." "Don't be silly." "You don't know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn't you see the way she looked?" "Oh, well," I said, "let's go to Senlis." "Don't get sore." "I'm not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home." "Good, that will be fine."<|quote|>"Well, I'll see you to-morrow at the courts,"</|quote|>I said. "Good-night, Jake," he said, and started back to the caf . "You forgot to get your paper," I said. "That's so." He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. "You are not sore, are you, Jake?" He turned with the paper in his hand. "No, why should I be?" "See you at tennis," he said. I watched him walk back to the caf holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life. CHAPTER 2 That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread "The Purple Land." "The Purple Land" is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of "The Purple Land" as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office. "Hello, Robert," I
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The Sun Also Rises
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"Yes."
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Mrs. Corney
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replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of
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of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?"
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Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I
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cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. "Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?" The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. "Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there may be money's worth to get, eh?" "Perhaps there may," was the composed reply. "Something that was taken from her," said
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moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured. "These fits come over me, now and then," said Monks, observing his alarm; "and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for this once." Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. "Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?" The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. "Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there may be money's worth to get, eh?" "Perhaps there may," was the composed reply. "Something that was taken from her," said Monks. "Something that she wore. Something that" "You had better bid," interrupted Mrs. Bumble. "I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to." Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure. "What's it worth to you?" asked
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look of Monks. "I know they will always keep _one_ till it's found out," said Monks. "And what may that be?" asked the matron. "The loss of their own good name," replied Monks. "So, by the same rule, if a woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?" "No," rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke. "Of course you don't!" said Monks. "How should you?" Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre. "Hear it!" he cried, shrinking back. "Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!" He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured. "These fits come over me, now and then," said Monks, observing his alarm; "and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for this once." Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. "Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?" The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. "Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there may be money's worth to get, eh?" "Perhaps there may," was the composed reply. "Something that was taken from her," said Monks. "Something that she wore. Something that" "You had better bid," interrupted Mrs. Bumble. "I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to." Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure. "What's it worth to you?" asked the woman, as collectedly as before. "It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds," replied Monks. "Speak out, and let me know which." "Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold," said the woman; "and I'll tell you all I know. Not before." "Five-and-twenty pounds!" exclaimed Monks, drawing back. "I spoke as plainly as I could," replied Mrs. Bumble. "It's not a large sum, either." "Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's told!" cried Monks impatiently; "and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!" "Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time," answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. "As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!" "What if I pay it for nothing?" asked Monks, hesitating. "You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected." "Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither," submitted
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ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain commenced pouring violently down. "The place should be somewhere here," said Bumble, consulting a scrap of paper he held in his hand. "Halloa there!" cried a voice from above. Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story. "Stand still, a minute," cried the voice; "I'll be with you directly." With which the head disappeared, and the door closed. "Is that the man?" asked Mr. Bumble's good lady. Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative. "Then, mind what I told you," said the matron: "and be careful to say as little as you can, or you'll betray us at once." Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards. "Come in!" he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. "Don't keep me here!" The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic. "What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?" said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them. "We we were only cooling ourselves," stammered Bumble, looking apprehensively about him. "Cooling yourselves!" retorted Monks. "Not all the rain that ever fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell's fire out, as a man can carry about with him. You won't cool yourself so easily; don't think it!" With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground. "This is the woman, is it?" demanded Monks. "Hem! That is the woman," replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife's caution. "You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?" said the matron, interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks. "I know they will always keep _one_ till it's found out," said Monks. "And what may that be?" asked the matron. "The loss of their own good name," replied Monks. "So, by the same rule, if a woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?" "No," rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke. "Of course you don't!" said Monks. "How should you?" Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre. "Hear it!" he cried, shrinking back. "Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!" He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured. "These fits come over me, now and then," said Monks, observing his alarm; "and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for this once." Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. "Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?" The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. "Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there may be money's worth to get, eh?" "Perhaps there may," was the composed reply. "Something that was taken from her," said Monks. "Something that she wore. Something that" "You had better bid," interrupted Mrs. Bumble. "I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to." Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure. "What's it worth to you?" asked the woman, as collectedly as before. "It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds," replied Monks. "Speak out, and let me know which." "Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold," said the woman; "and I'll tell you all I know. Not before." "Five-and-twenty pounds!" exclaimed Monks, drawing back. "I spoke as plainly as I could," replied Mrs. Bumble. "It's not a large sum, either." "Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's told!" cried Monks impatiently; "and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!" "Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time," answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. "As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!" "What if I pay it for nothing?" asked Monks, hesitating. "You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected." "Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither," submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: "_I_ am here, my dear. And besides," said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little rousing; that's all." As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose. "You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; "and had better hold your tongue." "He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower tone," said Monks, grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?" "He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question. "I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them,
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preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre. "Hear it!" he cried, shrinking back. "Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from it. I hate the sound!" He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured. "These fits come over me, now and then," said Monks, observing his alarm; "and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for this once." Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. "Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is, does she?" The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. "He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and that she told you something" "About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron interrupting him.<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks. "That's the second," observed the woman with much deliberation. "The first is, what may the communication be worth?" "Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked Monks. "Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify. "Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there may be money's worth to get, eh?" "Perhaps there may," was the composed reply. "Something that was taken from her," said Monks. "Something that she wore. Something that" "You had better bid," interrupted Mrs. Bumble. "I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to." Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure. "What's it worth to you?" asked the woman, as collectedly as before. "It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds," replied Monks. "Speak out, and let me know which." "Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold," said the woman; "and I'll tell you all I know. Not before." "Five-and-twenty pounds!" exclaimed Monks, drawing back. "I spoke as plainly as I could," replied Mrs. Bumble. "It's not a large sum, either." "Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's told!" cried Monks impatiently; "and which has been lying dead for twelve years past or more!" "Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in course of time," answered the matron, still preserving the resolute indifference she had assumed. "As to lying dead, there are those who will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!" "What if I pay it for nothing?" asked Monks, hesitating. "You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected." "Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither," submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: "_I_ am here, my dear. And besides," said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young
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Oliver Twist
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"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."
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A High Piping Voice
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in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by
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Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment
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feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
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mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge
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room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me." Chapter IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour. "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen" "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson." "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you would you have the kindness? I
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my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions." We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighbourhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings, the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house. "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me." Chapter IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour. "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen" "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson." "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral." I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for uneasiness." "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now." I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she. "I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say.
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He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us. "You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner, "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your companions is a police-officer." "I give you my word on that," she answered. He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away at a furious pace through the foggy streets. The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete hoax, which was an inconceivable hypothesis, or else we had good reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey. Miss Morstan s demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets. "Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses of the river." We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side. "Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions." We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighbourhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings, the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house. "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me." Chapter IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour. "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen" "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson." "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral." I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for uneasiness." "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now." I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she. "I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders, no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes. "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go no further." I nodded to show my agreement. "That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odour of the Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semi-circle, with our heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre. "When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he, "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more un sthetic than a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot
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by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of new staring brick buildings, the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbours, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house. "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me, khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me." Chapter IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year. "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high voice.<|quote|>"Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."</|quote|>We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour. "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen" "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson." "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral." I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You have no cause for uneasiness." "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now." I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart that he was dead," said she. "I can give you every information," said
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The Sign Of The Four
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"Well now, I always said it,"
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Matthew Cuthbert
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not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the
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one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew
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the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has
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I should come out first?' "quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse,
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as many airs as if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring evening." "I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this--yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think _once_," ?What if I should come out first?' "quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. CHAPTER XXXIII. The Hotel Concert "PUT on your white organdy, by all means, Anne," advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A
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you've passed," she cried, "passed the _very first_--you and Gilbert both--you're ties--but your name is first. Oh, I'm so proud!" Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on Anne's bed, utterly breathless and incapable of further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting the match safe and using up half a dozen matches before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. Then she snatched up the paper. Yes, she had passed--there was her name at the very top of a list of two hundred! That moment was worth living for. "You did just splendidly, Anne," puffed Diana, recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, starry eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word. "Father brought the paper home from Bright River not ten minutes ago--it came out on the afternoon train, you know, and won't be here till tomorrow by mail--and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You've all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he's conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well--they're halfway up--and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you'll see she'll put on as many airs as if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring evening." "I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this--yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think _once_," ?What if I should come out first?' "quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. CHAPTER XXXIII. The Hotel Concert "PUT on your white organdy, by all means, Anne," advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid luster into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted Wood; the air was full of sweet summer sounds--sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, faraway voices and laughter. But in Anne's room the blind was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important toilet was being made. The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them resignedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as a young girl could desire. The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them. The floor was covered with a pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes were of pale-green art muslin. The walls, hung not with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a few good pictures given
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she would be among the first ten at least, so that she might see Matthew's kindly brown eyes gleam with pride in her achievement. That, she felt, would be a sweet reward indeed for all her hard work and patient grubbing among unimaginative equations and conjugations. At the end of the fortnight Anne took to "haunting" the post office also, in the distracted company of Jane, Ruby, and Josie, opening the Charlottetown dailies with shaking hands and cold, sinkaway feelings as bad as any experienced during the Entrance week. Charlie and Gilbert were not above doing this too, but Moody Spurgeon stayed resolutely away. "I haven't got the grit to go there and look at a paper in cold blood," he told Anne. "I'm just going to wait until somebody comes and tells me suddenly whether I've passed or not." When three weeks had gone by without the pass list appearing Anne began to feel that she really couldn't stand the strain much longer. Her appetite failed and her interest in Avonlea doings languished. Mrs. Lynde wanted to know what else you could expect with a Tory superintendent of education at the head of affairs, and Matthew, noting Anne's paleness and indifference and the lagging steps that bore her home from the post office every afternoon, began seriously to wonder if he hadn't better vote Grit at the next election. But one evening the news came. Anne was sitting at her open window, for the time forgetful of the woes of examinations and the cares of the world, as she drank in the beauty of the summer dusk, sweet-scented with flower breaths from the garden below and sibilant and rustling from the stir of poplars. The eastern sky above the firs was flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of color looked like that, when she saw Diana come flying down through the firs, over the log bridge, and up the slope, with a fluttering newspaper in her hand. Anne sprang to her feet, knowing at once what that paper contained. The pass list was out! Her head whirled and her heart beat until it hurt her. She could not move a step. It seemed an hour to her before Diana came rushing along the hall and burst into the room without even knocking, so great was her excitement. "Anne, you've passed," she cried, "passed the _very first_--you and Gilbert both--you're ties--but your name is first. Oh, I'm so proud!" Diana flung the paper on the table and herself on Anne's bed, utterly breathless and incapable of further speech. Anne lighted the lamp, oversetting the match safe and using up half a dozen matches before her shaking hands could accomplish the task. Then she snatched up the paper. Yes, she had passed--there was her name at the very top of a list of two hundred! That moment was worth living for. "You did just splendidly, Anne," puffed Diana, recovering sufficiently to sit up and speak, for Anne, starry eyed and rapt, had not uttered a word. "Father brought the paper home from Bright River not ten minutes ago--it came out on the afternoon train, you know, and won't be here till tomorrow by mail--and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You've all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he's conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well--they're halfway up--and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you'll see she'll put on as many airs as if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring evening." "I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this--yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think _once_," ?What if I should come out first?' "quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. CHAPTER XXXIII. The Hotel Concert "PUT on your white organdy, by all means, Anne," advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid luster into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted Wood; the air was full of sweet summer sounds--sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, faraway voices and laughter. But in Anne's room the blind was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important toilet was being made. The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them resignedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as a young girl could desire. The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them. The floor was covered with a pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes were of pale-green art muslin. The walls, hung not with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a few good pictures given Anne by Mrs. Allan. Miss Stacy's photograph occupied the place of honor, and Anne made a sentimental point of keeping fresh flowers on the bracket under it. Tonight a spike of white lilies faintly perfumed the room like the dream of a fragrance. There was no "mahogany furniture," but there was a white-painted bookcase filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet table befrilled with white muslin, a quaint, gilt-framed mirror with chubby pink Cupids and purple grapes painted over its arched top, that used to hang in the spare room, and a low white bed. Anne was dressing for a concert at the White Sands Hotel. The guests had got it up in aid of the Charlottetown hospital, and had hunted out all the available amateur talent in the surrounding districts to help it along. Bertha Sampson and Pearl Clay of the White Sands Baptist choir had been asked to sing a duet; Milton Clark of Newbridge was to give a violin solo; Winnie Adella Blair of Carmody was to sing a Scotch ballad; and Laura Spencer of Spencervale and Anne Shirley of Avonlea were to recite. As Anne would have said at one time, it was "an epoch in her life," and she was deliciously athrill with the excitement of it. Matthew was in the seventh heaven of gratified pride over the honor conferred on his Anne and Marilla was not far behind, although she would have died rather than admit it, and said she didn't think it was very proper for a lot of young folks to be gadding over to the hotel without any responsible person with them. Anne and Diana were to drive over with Jane Andrews and her brother Billy in their double-seated buggy; and several other Avonlea girls and boys were going too. There was a party of visitors expected out from town, and after the concert a supper was to be given to the performers. "Do you really think the organdy will be best?" queried Anne anxiously. "I don't think it's as pretty as my blue-flowered muslin--and it certainly isn't so fashionable." "But it suits you ever so much better," said Diana. "It's so soft and frilly and clinging. The muslin is stiff, and makes you look too dressed up. But the organdy seems as if it grew on you." Anne sighed and yielded. Diana was beginning to have a reputation
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by mail--and when I saw the pass list I just rushed over like a wild thing. You've all passed, every one of you, Moody Spurgeon and all, although he's conditioned in history. Jane and Ruby did pretty well--they're halfway up--and so did Charlie. Josie just scraped through with three marks to spare, but you'll see she'll put on as many airs as if she'd led. Won't Miss Stacy be delighted? Oh, Anne, what does it feel like to see your name at the head of a pass list like that? If it were me I know I'd go crazy with joy. I am pretty near crazy as it is, but you're as calm and cool as a spring evening." "I'm just dazzled inside," said Anne. "I want to say a hundred things, and I can't find words to say them in. I never dreamed of this--yes, I did too, just once! I let myself think _once_," ?What if I should come out first?' "quakingly, you know, for it seemed so vain and presumptuous to think I could lead the Island. Excuse me a minute, Diana. I must run right out to the field to tell Matthew. Then we'll go up the road and tell the good news to the others." They hurried to the hayfield below the barn where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first--or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful."<|quote|>"Well now, I always said it,"</|quote|>said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. CHAPTER XXXIII. The Hotel Concert "PUT on your white organdy, by all means, Anne," advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid luster into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted Wood; the air was full of sweet summer sounds--sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, faraway voices and laughter. But in Anne's room the blind was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important toilet was being made. The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them resignedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as a young girl could desire. The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them. The floor was covered with a pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes were of pale-green art muslin. The walls, hung not with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a few good pictures given Anne by Mrs. Allan. Miss Stacy's photograph occupied the place of honor, and Anne made a sentimental point of keeping fresh flowers on the bracket under it. Tonight a spike of white lilies faintly perfumed the room like the dream of a fragrance. There was no "mahogany furniture," but there was a white-painted bookcase filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet table befrilled with white muslin, a quaint, gilt-framed mirror with chubby pink Cupids and purple grapes painted over its arched top, that used to hang in the spare room, and a low white bed. Anne was dressing for a concert at the White Sands Hotel. The guests had got it up in aid of the Charlottetown hospital, and had hunted out all the available amateur talent in the surrounding districts to help it along. Bertha Sampson and Pearl Clay of the White Sands Baptist choir had been asked to sing a duet; Milton Clark of Newbridge was to give a violin
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Anne Of Green Gables
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laughed Don.
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No speaker
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again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well
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I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas'
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home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily.
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'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite
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much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you
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"They understand an English word now and then." "Well, I've no more to say, only this--If those two men do come ashore, or you find that they have come ashore, you've got to seize them and make them prisoners. Make slaves of them if you like till we come again, and then you can give them up and receive a good reward." "I shall never get any reward," said Tomati, grimly. "Poor lads! No," said the boatswain; "I'm afraid not." Just then there was a sharp movement among the Maoris, who set up a loud grunting noise, which drew the attention of the lieutenant, and made the men laugh. "It's only their way," said the Englishman gruffly. "Ah, a queer lot. Better come back to civilisation, my man," said the lieutenant. "At Norfolk Island, sir?" "Humph!" muttered the lieutenant; and facing his men round, he marched them back to the boats, after which they spent about four hours making soundings, and then returned to the ship. Almost before the sailors were out of hearing, there was a scuffle and agitation in the group, and Jem struggled from among the Maoris, his face hot and nearly purple, Don's not being very much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course."
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you aboard, and hand you over to the authorities." "What for?" said the Englishman, surlily. "Escaping from Norfolk Island. That's right, isn't it?" "Look here!" said the Englishman; "do you know, sir, that this is one of the worst parts of the coast, and that the people here think nothing of attacking boats' crews and plundering them, and making them prisoners, and often enough killing and eating 'em?" "Threatening, eh?" said the lieutenant. "Not I. But I'm a chief, and the people here would do everything I told them, and fight for me to a man." "Then you are threatening." "No, sir; I only wanted to remind you that your boats' crews have come and gone in peace; that you have been allowed to go about ashore, and been supplied with fruit and vegetables, and never a thing missed." "That's true enough," said the lieutenant. "Well, what of that? A king's ship well-armed would keep a larger tribe than yours quiet!" "Oh! Oh!" came from the group of natives. "Yes, I repeat it," said the lieutenant sharply. "They can understand English, then?" "Of course they do," said the tattooed man calmly, though he looked uneasily at the group; "and as to your ship, sir, what's the good of that if we were to fight you ashore?" "Do you want to fight, then?" said the lieutenant sharply. "It doesn't seem like it, when I've kept my tribe peaceful toward all your crew, and made them trade honestly." "Out of respect to our guns." "Can you bring your guns along the valleys and up into the mountains?" "No; but we can bring plenty of well-drilled fighting men." "Oh! Oh!" came in quite a long-drawn groan. "Yes," said the lieutenant looking toward the group, "well-drilled, well-armed righting men, who would drive your people like leaves before the wind. But I don't want to quarrel. I am right, though; you are an escaped convict from Norfolk Island?" "Yes, I am," said the man boldly; "but I've given up civilisation, and I'm a Maori now, and the English Government had better leave me alone." "Well, I've no orders to take you." "Oh! Oh!" came again from the group: and Tomati turned sharply round, and said a few words indignantly in the Maori tongue, whose result was a huddling closer together of the men in the group and utter silence. "They'll be quiet now," said Tomati. "They understand an English word now and then." "Well, I've no more to say, only this--If those two men do come ashore, or you find that they have come ashore, you've got to seize them and make them prisoners. Make slaves of them if you like till we come again, and then you can give them up and receive a good reward." "I shall never get any reward," said Tomati, grimly. "Poor lads! No," said the boatswain; "I'm afraid not." Just then there was a sharp movement among the Maoris, who set up a loud grunting noise, which drew the attention of the lieutenant, and made the men laugh. "It's only their way," said the Englishman gruffly. "Ah, a queer lot. Better come back to civilisation, my man," said the lieutenant. "At Norfolk Island, sir?" "Humph!" muttered the lieutenant; and facing his men round, he marched them back to the boats, after which they spent about four hours making soundings, and then returned to the ship. Almost before the sailors were out of hearing, there was a scuffle and agitation in the group, and Jem struggled from among the Maoris, his face hot and nearly purple, Don's not being very much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that night Don and Jem sat screened by the ferns high up on the mountain side, and saw the sloop of war with her sails set, and looking golden in the setting sun, gliding slowly away toward the north-east, careening slightly over before a brisk breeze, which grew stronger as they reached out farther beyond the shelter of the land; and in spite of hints from Tomati, and calls from Ngati, neither could be coaxed down till, just as it was growing dusk, Don rose and turned to his companion. "Have we done right, Jem?" "What, in getting away from being slaves aboard ship? Why, o' course." Don shook his head. "I don't know," he said, sadly. "We are here right away on the other side of the world amongst savages, and I see no chance of getting away back home." "Oh, but we arn't tried yet, my lad." "No, we haven't tried, Jem." "My pakeha! My pakeha!" came from below. "There he goes again!" growled Jem. "Do tell Tomati to ask him to call you something else. I know I shall get in a row if you don't." "You must not get into any quarrel, Jem," said Don, thoughtfully; "for we ought to keep the best of friends with these people. Ahoy!" An answering cry came back, and they began to descend with the darkness coming on and a strange depression of spirit troubling Don, as he felt more and more as if for the first time in their lives he and Jem Wimble were thoroughly alone in the world. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. SOMETHING TO DO. "'Tarn't so bad, Mas' Don," said Jem, about a month later. "Never felt so clean before in my life. Them hot baths is lovely, and if we could get some tea and coffee, and a bit o' new bread and fresh butter now and then, and I could get my Sally out here, I don't know as I should much mind stopping." "And what about the pot, Jem?" "Tchah! That was all gammon. I don't b'lieve they ever did anything o' the sort. When's Tomati coming back? Tomati, Jemmaree, Donni-Donni. Pretty sort of a language. Why, any one could talk New Zealandee." "I wish I could, Jem." "Well, so you could if you tried. All you've got to do is to riddle-me-ree the words a bit. I'm getting on first rate; and what I like in these people is that they never laughs at you when you makes a mistake." They had been furnished with a snug hut, close to one of the roughly-made hot water baths, and were fairly well supplied with food, which they augmented by going out in Ngati's canoe, and catching abundance of fish, to the Maori's great delight; for he gazed with admiration at the skilful methods adopted by Jem, who was no mean angler. "And the best of the fun is, Mas' Don, that the fishes out here are so stupid. They take any bait a'most, and taken altogether they're not such bad eating.
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drive your people like leaves before the wind. But I don't want to quarrel. I am right, though; you are an escaped convict from Norfolk Island?" "Yes, I am," said the man boldly; "but I've given up civilisation, and I'm a Maori now, and the English Government had better leave me alone." "Well, I've no orders to take you." "Oh! Oh!" came again from the group: and Tomati turned sharply round, and said a few words indignantly in the Maori tongue, whose result was a huddling closer together of the men in the group and utter silence. "They'll be quiet now," said Tomati. "They understand an English word now and then." "Well, I've no more to say, only this--If those two men do come ashore, or you find that they have come ashore, you've got to seize them and make them prisoners. Make slaves of them if you like till we come again, and then you can give them up and receive a good reward." "I shall never get any reward," said Tomati, grimly. "Poor lads! No," said the boatswain; "I'm afraid not." Just then there was a sharp movement among the Maoris, who set up a loud grunting noise, which drew the attention of the lieutenant, and made the men laugh. "It's only their way," said the Englishman gruffly. "Ah, a queer lot. Better come back to civilisation, my man," said the lieutenant. "At Norfolk Island, sir?" "Humph!" muttered the lieutenant; and facing his men round, he marched them back to the boats, after which they spent about four hours making soundings, and then returned to the ship. Almost before the sailors were out of hearing, there was a scuffle and agitation in the group, and Jem struggled from among the Maoris, his face hot and nearly purple, Don's not being very much better. "I won't stand it. Nearly smothered. I won't have it," cried Jem furiously. "Don't be so foolish, Jem. It was to save us," said Don, trying to pacify him. "Save us! Well they might ha' saved us gently. Look at me. I'm nearly flat." "Nonsense! I found it unpleasant; but they hid us, and we're all right." "But I arn't all right, Mas' Don; I feel like a pancake," cried Jem, rubbing and patting himself as if he were so much paste or clay which he wanted to get back into shape. "Don't be so stupid, Jem!" "Stoopid? 'Nough to make any man feel stoopid. I was 'most stuffocated." "So was I." "Yes, but you hadn't got that big, `my pakeha' chap sitting on you all the time." "No, Jem, I hadn't," said Don, laughing. "Well, I had, and he weighs 'bout as much as a sugar-hogshead at home, and that arn't light." "But it was to hide us, Jem." "Hide us, indeed! Bother me if it didn't seem as if they was all hens wanting to sit on one egg, and that egg was me. I know I shall never get right again." "Oh yes, you will,"<|quote|>laughed Don.</|quote|>"Ah, it's all werry well for you to laugh, Mas' Don; but if my ribs hadn't been made o' the best o' bone, they'd ha' cracked like carrots, and where should I ha' been then?" "Hurt, mate?" said Tomati, coming up and laughing at Jem, who was rubbing himself angrily. "Just you go and be sat upon all that time, and see if you won't feel hurt," grumbled Jem. "Why, it hurts your feelings as much as it does your body." "Ah, well, never mind. You're quite safe now." Tomati walked away to speak to one of his men. "Quite safe now, he says, Mas' Don. Well, I don't feel it. Hear what he said to the fust lufftenant; this was the worst part of the coast, and the people were ready to rob and murder and eat you?" "I didn't hear all that, Jem," said Don quietly. "I heard him say that they were a warlike, fighting people; but that doesn't matter if they are kind to us." "But that's what I'm feared on," said Jem, giving himself a jerk. "Afraid of them being kind?" "Ay, feared of them liking us too well. Pot." "Pot?" "Yes, Pot. Don't you understand?" "No." "Pot. P--O--T, Pot." "Well, of course, I know that; but what does it mean?" "Why, they've sat upon you, Mas' Don, till your head won't work; that's what's the matter with you, my lad. I mean treat us as if we was chyce fat sheep." "Nonsense, Jem!" "Oh, is it? Well, you'll see." "I hope not," said Don, laughing. "Ah, you may laugh, my lad, but you won't grin that day when it comes to the worst." News was brought in soon after of the boats being busy taking soundings, and that
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Don Lavington
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continued the other,
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No speaker
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"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly
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a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let
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Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is
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good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind;
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it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria s intelligence concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. "She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you can you really be in love with James?" This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella s every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and
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the happiest state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar s Buildings. The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne s quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday s party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in detail that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook s, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria s intelligence concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. "She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you can you really be in love with James?" This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella s every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy. Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations. "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland s family than to my own." This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. "You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas the very first moment I beheld him my heart was
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again, but she was amiable for some time to little effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give that could relieve her anxiety; she had heard nothing of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, having occasion for some indispensable yard of ribbon which must be bought without a moment s delay, walked out into the town, and in Bond Street overtook the second Miss Thorpe as she was loitering towards Edgar s Buildings between two of the sweetest girls in the world, who had been her dear friends all the morning. From her, she soon learned that the party to Clifton had taken place. "They set off at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I am sure I do not envy them their drive. I think you and I are very well off to be out of the scrape. It must be the dullest thing in the world, for there is not a soul at Clifton at this time of year. Belle went with your brother, and John drove Maria." Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the arrangement. "Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go. She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if they pressed me ever so much." Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go." "Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us." Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to resent her resistance any longer. CHAPTER 15 Early the next day, a note from Isabella, speaking peace and tenderness in every line, and entreating the immediate presence of her friend on a matter of the utmost importance, hastened Catherine, in the happiest state of confidence and curiosity, to Edgar s Buildings. The two youngest Miss Thorpes were by themselves in the parlour; and, on Anne s quitting it to call her sister, Catherine took the opportunity of asking the other for some particulars of their yesterday s party. Maria desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learnt that it had been altogether the most delightful scheme in the world, that nobody could imagine how charming it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anybody could conceive. Such was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in detail that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup, and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook s, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria s intelligence concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. "She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you can you really be in love with James?" This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella s every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy. Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations. "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland s family than to my own." This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. "You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me; the first moment settles everything. The very first day that Morland came to us last Christmas the very first moment I beheld him my heart was irrecoverably gone. I remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids; and when I came into the drawing-room, and John introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody so handsome before." Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for, though exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she had never in her life thought him handsome. "I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a wink all night for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother s account! I would not have you suffer half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would be safe with _you_." Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point, nor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy as Isabella chose to consider her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton, to make known his situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real agitation to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose their son s wishes. "It is impossible," said she, "for parents to be more kind, or more desirous of their children s happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting immediately." "Morland says exactly the same," replied Isabella; "and yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can consent to it. Your brother, who might marry anybody!" Here Catherine again discerned the force of love. "Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be nothing to signify." "Oh! My sweet Catherine, in _your_ generous heart I know it would signify nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for myself, I am sure I
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some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned to eat ice at a pastry-cook s, and hurrying back to the hotel, swallowed their dinner in haste, to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful drive back, only the moon was not up, and it rained a little, and Mr. Morland s horse was so tired he could hardly get it along. Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared that Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to regret for half an instant. Maria s intelligence concluded with a tender effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably cross, from being excluded the party. "She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know, how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a little matter that puts me out of temper." Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend s notice. Maria was without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything." Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance. "Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,"<|quote|>continued the other,</|quote|>"compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!" Catherine s understanding began to awake: an idea of the truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an emotion, she cried out, "Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean? Can you can you really be in love with James?" This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having continually watched in Isabella s every look and action, had, in the course of their yesterday s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love. Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged! New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of having such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in embraces and tears of joy. Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed her in tender anticipations. "You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more attached to my dear Morland s family than to my own." This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine. "You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I
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Northanger Abbey
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I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.
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No speaker
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go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said.
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Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we
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it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and
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coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked
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talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. CHAPTER 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square,
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with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn. "We're going," Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. CHAPTER 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares. Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her head was down. "Don't touch me," she said. "Please don't touch me." "What's the matter?" "I
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She had been taken up by them. I knew then that they would all dance with her. They are like that. I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a _fine l'eau_. "You're from Kansas City, they tell me," he said. "Yes." "Do you find Paris amusing?" "Yes." "Really?" I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless. "For God's sake," I said, "yes. Don't you?" "Oh, how charmingly you get angry," he said. "I wish I had that faculty." I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be cross with Robert," she said. "He's still only a child, you know." "I wasn't cross," I said. "I just thought perhaps I was going to throw up." "Your fianc e is having a great success," Mrs. Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. "Isn't she?" I said. "Rather," said Mrs. Braddocks. Cohn came up. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn. "We're going," Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. CHAPTER 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares. Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her head was down. "Don't touch me," she said. "Please don't touch me." "What's the matter?" "I can't stand it." "Oh, Brett." "You mustn't. You must know. I can't stand it, that's all. Oh, darling, please understand!" "Don't you love me?" "Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me." "Isn't there anything we can do about it?" She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things. "And there's not a damn thing we could do," I said. "I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go through that hell again." "We'd better keep away from each other." "But, darling, I have to see you. It isn't all that you know." "No, but it always gets to be." "That's my fault. Don't we pay for all the things we do, though?" She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her eyes had different depths, sometimes they seemed perfectly flat. Now you could see all the way into them. "When I think of the hell I've put chaps through. I'm paying for it all now." "Don't talk like a fool," I said. "Besides, what happened to me is supposed to be funny. I never think about it." "Oh, no. I'll lay you don't." "Well, let's shut up about it." "I laughed about it too, myself, once." She wasn't looking at me. "A friend of my brother's came home that way from Mons. It seemed like a hell of a joke. Chaps never know anything, do they?" "No," I said. "Nobody ever knows anything." I was pretty well through with the subject. At one time or another I had probably considered it from most of its various angles, including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject of merriment while remaining quite serious for the person possessing them. "It's funny," I said. "It's very funny. And it's a lot of fun, too, to be in love." "Do you think so?" her eyes looked flat again. "I don't mean fun
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said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar. "What's the matter with you? You seem all worked up over something?" "Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all." Brett came up to the bar. "Hello, you chaps." "Hello, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you tight?" "Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda." She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy's. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. "It's a fine crowd you're with, Brett," I said. "Aren't they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did you get it?" "At the Napolitain." "And have you had a lovely evening?" "Oh, priceless," I said. Brett laughed. "It's wrong of you, Jake. It's an insult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo." This for Cohn's benefit. "It's in restraint of trade," Brett said. She laughed again. "You're wonderfully sober," I said. "Yes. Aren't I? And when one's with the crowd I'm with, one can drink in such safety, too." The music started and Robert Cohn said: "Will you dance this with me, Lady Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised to dance this with Jacob," she laughed. "You've a hell of a biblical name, Jake." "How about the next?" asked Cohn. "We're going," Brett said. "We've a date up at Montmartre." Dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohn, standing at the bar, still watching her. "You've made a new one there," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it till just now." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose you like to add them up." "Don't talk like a fool." "You do." "Oh, well. What if I do?" "Nothing," I said. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. "What possessed you to bring her?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're getting damned romantic." "No, bored." "Now?" "No, not now." "Let's get out of here. She's well taken care of." "Do you want to?" "Would I ask you if I didn't want to?" We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. "If the girl I came with asks for me, will you give her this?" I said. "If she goes out with one of those gentlemen, will you save this for me?" "C'est entendu, Monsieur," the patronne said. "You go now? So early?" "Yes,"<|quote|>I said. We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm.</|quote|>"Good night, Cohn," I said. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi. "You're going to lose your fifty francs," Brett said. "Oh, yes." "No taxis." "We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one." "Come on and we'll get a drink in the pub next door and send for one." "You wouldn't walk across the street." "Not if I could help it." We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a taxi. "Well," I said, "we're out away from them." We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. "Where should I tell him?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to drive around." I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk. "Oh, darling, I've been so miserable," Brett said. CHAPTER 4 The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Brett's hat was off. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares. Brett's face was white and the long line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips
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The Sun Also Rises
|
said Tom,
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No speaker
|
to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed
|
emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps
|
in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail
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"To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly
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particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions
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to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield no matter it was all misery now. CHAPTER XVII It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have
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to distrust myself, and yet But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act no matter whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings." "No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner. "She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill." "She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared" "... She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied. "I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, "and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?" opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others. "And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold." He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield no matter it was all misery now. CHAPTER XVII It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether. Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly. Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others. For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him not to
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her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield no matter it was all misery now. CHAPTER XVII It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches. "Perhaps,"<|quote|>said Tom,</|quote|>"Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_." "No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether. Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly. Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any
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Mansfield Park
|
he said.
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No speaker
|
lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you
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ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a
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right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged
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Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd
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faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home,
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mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think
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and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse. He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners. "Hold the lanthorn here," he said sharply. "Now let's have a look at you." He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly. "All right, my lad," he said to Don; "you will not die this time. Now you." He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand. "Been rather rough with this one, my lads." "Couldn't help it," said one of the sailors; "he fote so hard. So did this young chap too." "Nothing wrong with him, I daresay," said the bluff man. "No bones broken. All right in a day or two." Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily. "Now, sir!" he exclaimed, "have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage." "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried the bluff man. "It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men." "Well crowed, my young cockerel," said the bluff man, laughing. "They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue." "Insulting us now you have us down will not save you," cried Don fiercely. "No, my lord," said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don. The men laughed. "You coward!" cried Don in hot anger; "but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished." "Really, this is growing serious," said the bluff man in mock alarm. "You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once." "Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain," said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't, because I was so waxy." "And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I--I did half think of going away." "Then you've done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I've forsook her." "And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool--fool--fool!" "What's the use o' calling yourself a fool, Mas' Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!" "Jem, we must escape." "Escape? I on'y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache." "They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up." "What's the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!" "Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where's your hand?" "Gently, my lad; that's my hye. Arn't much use here in the dark, but may want 'em by-and-by. That's better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight." "Can't you stand, Jem?" "Stand, sir? Yes: but what's the matter? It's like being in a round-about at the fair." "You'll be better soon." "Better, sir? Well, I can't be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I'd got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I'd give him such a roll up and down the ware'us floor as 'ud make him as giddy as me." "Now try and think, Jem," said Don excitedly. "They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away." "No, sir; my Sally mustn't think that." "Then what shall we do?" "Try to get out, sir, of course." "Can you walk?" "Well, sir, if I can't, I'll crawl. What yer going to do?" "Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked." "Not likely," said Jem. "Wish I'd got a candle. It's like being a rat in a box trap. It _is_ dark." "This way, Jem. Your hand." "All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don't grow out o' my back." "That's it. Now together. Let's get to the wall." There was a rustling noise and then a rattle. "Phew! Shins!" cried Jem. "Oh, dear me. That's barrel staves, I know the feel on 'em. Such sharp edges, Mas' Don. Mind you don't tread on the edge of a hoop, or it'll fly up and hit you right in the middle." _Flip_! "There, I told
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mock solemnity; "but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, `short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good ship _Great Briton_, and help me till I've settled my quarrel with my enemies,' so we have persuaded you." "You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir." "What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly." "Here, I'm all right again now, Mas' Don. Press-gang, eh?" cried Jem. "Here, let me get at him." Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard. "Ah, I wish we had fifty of you," said the bluff man. "Don't hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can't do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king." "You cowards!" cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light. "Come along," he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out. "Do you hear?" cried the bluff man again. "Come along!" "How can I, when he's sticking on like a rat?" growled the man who held Don. "Did you ever see such a young ruffian?" The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold. "Don't be a young fool," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "It's plucky, but it's no good. Can't you see we're seven to one?" "I don't care if you're a hundred," raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly. "Bravo, boy! That's right; but we're English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that." He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem. "You'll do,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I thought we'd let you go, because you're such a boy, but you've got the pluck of a man, and you'll soon grow." He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked. "The cowards!" panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. "Why, Jem!" "Yes, Mas' Don." "They won't let us go." "No, Mas' Don, that they won't." "I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this." "I did, sir. They'd press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance." "But what are we to do?" "I d'know, sir." "We must let my uncle know at once." "Yes, sir, I would," said Jem grimly; "I'd holloa." "Don't be stupid. What's the good?" "Not a bit, sir." "But my uncle--my mother, what will they think?" "I'll tell yer, sir." "Yes?" "They'll think you've run away, so as not to have to go 'fore the magistrates." "Jem, what are you saying? Think I'm a thief?" "I didn't say that, sir; but so sure as you don't go home, they'll think you've cut away." "Jem!" cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open. "Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk," said Jem ill-naturedly-- "oh, how my head do ache!--and now you've got your chance." "But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don't want to go. What will they say?" "Dunno what they'll say," said Jem dolefully, "but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn't want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas' Don. She only shows a bit o' temper." "Jem, she'll think you've run away and deserted her." "Safe, Mas' Don. You see, I made up a bundle o' wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn't,
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Don Lavington
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"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"
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Jem Wimble
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them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I
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the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it."
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the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took
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standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the
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a hole in the rocks up here," came plainly now. "Ramsden," whispered Don in Jem's ear. They stole back a little more into the gloom, Jem offering no opposition now, for it seemed to them, so plainly could they see the bright greenish-hued daylight, and the configuration of the cavern's mouth, that so sure as any one climbed up to the shelf and looked in they would be seen. Impressed by this, Don whispered to Jem to come farther in, and they were about to back farther, when there was a rustling sound, and the figure of a man appeared standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in
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was not repeated, but the peculiar hissing went on, and, as if from a great distance, there came gurglings and rushing sounds, as if from water. "I know we shall get in somewhere, and not get out again, Mas' Don. There now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!" Don caught his arm, for there was another whistle, and not from the depths of the dark steamy cave, but from outside, evidently below the mouth of the cave, as if some one was climbing up. The whistle was answered, and the two fugitives crept back a little more into the darkness. "Ahoy! Come up here, sir!" shouted a familiar voice, and a hail came back. "Here's a hole in the rocks up here," came plainly now. "Ramsden," whispered Don in Jem's ear. They stole back a little more into the gloom, Jem offering no opposition now, for it seemed to them, so plainly could they see the bright greenish-hued daylight, and the configuration of the cavern's mouth, that so sure as any one climbed up to the shelf and looked in they would be seen. Impressed by this, Don whispered to Jem to come farther in, and they were about to back farther, when there was a rustling sound, and the figure of a man appeared standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes
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no pistols nor cutlashes. It's a lion, I know." "There are no lions here, Jem." "Arn't there? Then it's a tiger. I know un. I've seen 'em. Hark!" "But there are no tigers, nor any other fierce beasts here, Jem." "Now, how can you be so obstinate, Mas' Don, when you can hear 'em whistling, and sighing and breathing hard right in yonder. No, no, not a step farther do you go." "Don't be so foolish, Jem." "'Tarn't foolish, Mas' Don; and look here: I'm going to take advantage of them being asleep to put on my proper costoom, and if you'll take my advice, you'll do just the same." Don hesitated, but Jem took advantage of a handy seat-like piece of rock, and altered his dress rapidly, an example that, after a moment or two of hesitation, Don followed. "Dry as a bone," said Jem. "Come, that's better. I feels like a human being now. Just before I felt like a chap outside one of the shows at our fair." He doubled up the blanket he had been wearing, and threw it over his arm; while Don folded his, and laid it down, so that he could peer over the edge of the shelf, and command the entrance to the ravine. But all was perfectly silent and deserted, and, after waiting some time, he rose, and went a little way inside the cavern. "Don't! Don't be so precious rash, Mas' Don," cried Jem pettishly, as, urged on by his curiosity, Don went slowly, step by step, toward what seemed to be a dark blue veil of mist, which shut off farther view into the cave. "I don't think there's anything to mind, or they wouldn't have told us to hide here." "But you don't know, my lad. There may be dangerous wild critters in there as you never heard tell on. Graffems, and dragons, and beasts with stings in their tails--cockatoos." "Nonsense! Cockatrices," said Don laughing. "Well, it's all the same. Now, do be advised, Mas' Don, and stop here." "But I want to know what it's like farther in." Don went slowly forward into the dim mist, and Jem followed, murmuring bitterly at his being so rash. "Mind!" he cried suddenly, as a louder whistle than ordinary came from the depths of the cave, and the sound was so weird and strange that Don stopped short. The noise was not repeated, but the peculiar hissing went on, and, as if from a great distance, there came gurglings and rushing sounds, as if from water. "I know we shall get in somewhere, and not get out again, Mas' Don. There now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!" Don caught his arm, for there was another whistle, and not from the depths of the dark steamy cave, but from outside, evidently below the mouth of the cave, as if some one was climbing up. The whistle was answered, and the two fugitives crept back a little more into the darkness. "Ahoy! Come up here, sir!" shouted a familiar voice, and a hail came back. "Here's a hole in the rocks up here," came plainly now. "Ramsden," whispered Don in Jem's ear. They stole back a little more into the gloom, Jem offering no opposition now, for it seemed to them, so plainly could they see the bright greenish-hued daylight, and the configuration of the cavern's mouth, that so sure as any one climbed up to the shelf and looked in they would be seen. Impressed by this, Don whispered to Jem to come farther in, and they were about to back farther, when there was a rustling sound, and the figure of a man appeared standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they
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now, hark at that!" "It's only hot water, the same as we heard gurgling in our bath," said Don, still progressing. "Well, suppose it is. The more reason for your not going. P'r'aps this is where it comes from first, and nice place it must be where all that water's made hot. Let's go back, and wait close at the front." "No; let's go a little farther, Jem." "Why, I'm so hot now, my lad, I feel as if I was being steamed like a tater. Here, let's get back, and--" "Hist!" Don caught his arm, for there was another whistle, and not from the depths of the dark steamy cave, but from outside, evidently below the mouth of the cave, as if some one was climbing up. The whistle was answered, and the two fugitives crept back a little more into the darkness. "Ahoy! Come up here, sir!" shouted a familiar voice, and a hail came back. "Here's a hole in the rocks up here," came plainly now. "Ramsden," whispered Don in Jem's ear. They stole back a little more into the gloom, Jem offering no opposition now, for it seemed to them, so plainly could they see the bright greenish-hued daylight, and the configuration of the cavern's mouth, that so sure as any one climbed up to the shelf and looked in they would be seen. Impressed by this, Don whispered to Jem to come farther in, and they were about to back farther, when there was a rustling sound, and the figure of a man appeared standing up perfectly black against the light; but though his features were not visible, they knew him by his configuration, and that their guess at the voice was right. "He sees us," thought Don, and he stood as if turned to stone, one hand touching the warm rocky side of the cave, and the other resting upon Jem's shoulder. The man was motionless as they, and his appearance exercised an effect upon them like fascination, as he stood peering forward, and seeming to fix them with his eyes, which had the stronger fancied effect upon them for not being seen.<|quote|>"Wonder whether it would kill a man to hit him straight in the chest, and drive him off that rock down into the gully below,"</|quote|>said Jem to himself. "I should like to do it." Then he shrank back as if he had been struck, for the sinister scoundrel shouted loudly,-- "Ahoy there! Now, then out you come. I can see you hiding." CHAPTER THIRTY. A DETERMINED ENEMY. Don drew a long breath and took a step forward to march out and give himself up, but Jem's hands clasped him round, a pair of lips were placed to his ear, and the yard-man's voice whispered,-- "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he
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Don Lavington
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said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;
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No speaker
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dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I
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know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop
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Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I
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directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my
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"Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever
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instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there. "Well!" cried a faint and feeble voice. "Is there a little boy here?" inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob. "No," replied the voice; "God forbid." This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_ playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were
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dear," said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. "Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear." "Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin," said Sikes; "it looks real and genivine like." "Yes, yes, my dear, so it does," said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady's right hand. "There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!" said the Jew, rubbing his hands. "Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!" exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. "What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!" Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared. "Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears," said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld. "She's a honour to her sex," said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. "Here's her health, and wishing they was all like her!" While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards. Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke. "Nolly, dear?" murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; "Nolly?" There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there. "Well!" cried a faint and feeble voice. "Is there a little boy here?" inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob. "No," replied the voice; "God forbid." This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_ playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and
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clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there. "Well!" cried a faint and feeble voice. "Is there a little boy here?" inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob. "No," replied the voice; "God forbid." This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_ playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office. But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,"<|quote|>said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand;</|quote|>"there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!" said the old lady, good-humouredly;
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Oliver Twist
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“What in damnation--?”
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Theign
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drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the
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the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose
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used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress
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you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,”
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before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as
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looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the People the picture--?”
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of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the People the picture--?” “As a sacrifice--yes!--to morbid, though respectable scruples.” To which he sharply added, as if struck with her easy grasp of the scene: “But I hope you’ve nothing to call a memory for any such extravagance?” Lady Sandgate waited--then boldly took her line. “None whatever! You had reacted against Bender--but you hadn’t gone so far as _that!_” He had it now all vividly before him. “I had reacted--like a gentleman; but it didn’t thereby follow that I acted--or spoke--like a demagogue; and my mind’s a complete blank on the subject of my having done so.” “So that there only flushes through your conscience,” she suggested, “the fact that he has forced your hand?” Fevered with the sore sense of it his lordship wiped his brow. “He has played me, for spite, his damned impertinent trick!” She found but after a minute--for it wasn’t easy--the right word, or the least wrong, for the situation. “Well, even if he did so diabolically commit you, you still don’t want--do you?--to back out?” Resenting the suggestion, which restored all his nobler form, Lord Theign fairly drew himself up. “When did I ever in all my life back out?” “Never, never in all your life of course!” --she dashed a bucketful at the flare. “And the picture after all----!” “The picture after all” --he took her up in cold grim gallant despair-- “has just been pronounced definitely priceless.” And then to meet her gaping ignorance: “By Mr. Crimble’s latest and apparently greatest adviser, who strongly stamps it a Mantovano and whose practical affidavit I now possess.” Poor Lady Sandgate gaped but the more--she wondered and yearned. “Definitely priceless?” “Definitely priceless.” After which he took from its place of lurking, considerately unfolding it, the goodly slip he had removed from her blotting-book. “Worth even more therefore than what Bender so blatantly offers.” Her attention fell with interest, from the distance at which she stood, on this confirmatory document, her recognition of which was not immediate. “And is that the affidavit?” “This is a cheque to your order, my lady, for ten thousand pounds.” “Ten thousand?” --she echoed it with a shout. “Drawn by some hand unknown,” he went on quietly. “Unknown?” --again, in her muffled joy, she 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,
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“And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!” There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate<|quote|>“What in damnation--?”</|quote|>His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the People the picture--?” “As a sacrifice--yes!--to morbid, though respectable scruples.” To which he sharply added, as if struck with her easy grasp of the scene: “But I hope you’ve nothing to call a memory for any such extravagance?” Lady Sandgate waited--then boldly took her line. “None whatever! You had reacted against Bender--but you hadn’t gone so far as _that!_” He had it now all vividly before him. “I had reacted--like a gentleman; but it didn’t thereby follow that I acted--or spoke--like a demagogue; and my mind’s a complete blank on the subject of my having done so.” “So that there only flushes through your conscience,” she suggested, “the fact that he has forced your hand?” Fevered with the sore sense of it his lordship wiped his brow.
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The Outcry
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"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."
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Mr. Inglethorp
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Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased
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purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on
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amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope
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Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp,
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well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?" "Really I cannot remember." "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again." Inglethorp shook his head. "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking." "In what direction?" "I really can't remember." The Coroner's face grew graver. "Were you in company with anyone?" "No." "Did you meet anyone on your walk?" "No." "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where
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"Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?" "Really I cannot remember." "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again." Inglethorp shook his head. "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking." "In what direction?" "I really can't remember." The Coroner's face grew graver. "Were you in company with anyone?" "No." "Did you meet anyone on your walk?" "No." "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?" "If you like to take it that way, yes." "Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp." Poirot was fidgeting nervously. "_Sacr !_" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man _want_ to be arrested?" Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief. "You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?" "Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon." "Have you anyone who can testify to that?" "You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily. The Coroner did not trouble to reply. "There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp." "Those witnesses were mistaken." I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at
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on my book." "And that is all you can tell us?" "That is all." The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose. Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles. William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier. Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish. "You did not hear the table fall?" "No. I was fast asleep." The Coroner smiled. "A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all." "Miss Howard." Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately, Emily Inglethorpe It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively. "I fear it does not help us much," said the Coroner, with a sigh. "There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon." "Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!" "It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out. "No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But _I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?" "Really I cannot remember." "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again." Inglethorp shook his head. "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking." "In what direction?" "I really can't remember." The Coroner's face grew graver. "Were you in company with anyone?" "No." "Did you meet anyone on your walk?" "No." "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?" "If you like to take it that way, yes." "Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp." Poirot was fidgeting nervously. "_Sacr !_" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man _want_ to be arrested?" Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief. "You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?" "Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon." "Have you anyone who can testify to that?" "You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily. The Coroner did not trouble to reply. "There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp." "Those witnesses were mistaken." I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt? "Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?" "Certainly I can." "You can?" "It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me." "Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!" "You think it is true?" I whispered. "I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition." "You read my wife's last words as an accusation" Inglethorp was continuing "they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me." The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said: "I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?" "I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few minutes later, it was gone." This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample time to introduce the poison. At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair. I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear. "Do you know who that little man is?" I shook my head. "That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard Jimmy Japp. The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my friend." I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being official personages. I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given: "Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown." CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for
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But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself." Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character. "Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk talk talk! When all the time we know perfectly well" The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension: "Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all." I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied. Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant. It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army. These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business. "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?" "Yes, sir." "When was this?" "Last Monday night." "Monday? Not Tuesday?" "No, sir, Monday, the 16th." "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?" You could have heard a pin drop. "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp." Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face. "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly. "Quite sure, sir." "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?" The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown. "Oh, no, sir of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog." Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall" especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment. "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so." "Have you got the book here?" "Yes, sir." It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace. Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck? The Coroner went straight to the point. "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?" Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:<|quote|>"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."</|quote|>"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?" "I do." "Do you also deny _this_?" The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed. "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you." He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar. "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?" Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken." The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?" "Really I cannot remember." "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again." Inglethorp shook his head. "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking." "In what direction?" "I really can't remember." The Coroner's face grew graver. "Were you in company with anyone?" "No." "Did you meet anyone on your walk?" "No." "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?" "If you like to take it that way, yes." "Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp." Poirot was fidgeting nervously. "_Sacr !_" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man _want_ to be arrested?" Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief. "You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?" "Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon." "Have you anyone who can testify to that?" "You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily. The Coroner did not trouble to reply. "There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp." "Those witnesses were mistaken." I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt? "Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?" "Certainly I can." "You can?" "It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me." "Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!" "You think it is true?" I whispered. "I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition." "You read my wife's last words as an accusation" Inglethorp was continuing "they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me." The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said: "I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?" "I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend
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The Mysterious Affair At Styles
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“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”
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Crimble
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inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the
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call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that.
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atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it
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here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr.
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on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with but a large vague blandness that wore in him somehow the mark of tested utility; so that Hugh put him another question: “Aren’t you here, sir, on the chance of the Mantovano?” “I’m here,” he then imperturbably said, “because Lord Theign has wired me to meet him. Ain’t you here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr. Bender added in his homely way: “But you know, Mr. Crimble, what I’m _really_ after.” Hugh’s strategy on this would again have peeped out for us. “The man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ appears at least to have discovered.” “Yes, the man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ has discovered three or four weeks--as it appears to take you here for everything--after my beginning to talk. Why, they knew I was talking _that_ time ago on the other side.” “Oh, they know things in the States,” Hugh cheerfully agreed, “so independently of their happening! But you must have talked loud.” “Well, I haven’t
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take three or four weeks.” “Well, in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back on me--after working me up so down there? The worst I’ve done,” Mr. Bender continued, “is to refuse that Moretto.” “Has it deplorably been _offered_ you?” our young man cried, unmistakably and sincerely affected. After which he went on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with but a large vague blandness that wore in him somehow the mark of tested utility; so that Hugh put him another question: “Aren’t you here, sir, on the chance of the Mantovano?” “I’m here,” he then imperturbably said, “because Lord Theign has wired me to meet him. Ain’t you here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr. Bender added in his homely way: “But you know, Mr. Crimble, what I’m _really_ after.” Hugh’s strategy on this would again have peeped out for us. “The man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ appears at least to have discovered.” “Yes, the man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ has discovered three or four weeks--as it appears to take you here for everything--after my beginning to talk. Why, they knew I was talking _that_ time ago on the other side.” “Oh, they know things in the States,” Hugh cheerfully agreed, “so independently of their happening! But you must have talked loud.” “Well, I haven’t so much talked as raved,” Mr. Bender conceded-- “for I’m afraid that when I do want a thing I rave till I get it. You heard me at Ded-borough, and your enterprising daily press has at last caught the echo.” “Then they’ll make up for lost time! But have you done it,” Hugh asked, “to prepare an alibi?” “An alibi?” “By ‘raving,’ as you say, the saddle on the wrong horse. I don’t think you at all believe you’ll get the Sir Joshua--but meanwhile we shall have cleared up the question of the Moretto.” Mr. Bender, imperturbable, didn’t speak till he had done justice to this picture of his subtlety. “Then, why on earth do you want to boom the Moretto?” “You ask that,” said Hugh, “because it’s the boomed thing that’s most in peril.” “Well, it’s the big, the bigger, the biggest things, and if you drag their value to the light why shouldn’t we want to grab them and carry them off--the same as all of _you_ originally did?” “Ah, not quite the same,” Hugh smiled-- “that I _will_ say for you!” “Yes, you stick it on now--you _have_ got an eye for the rise in values. But
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a boom.” Though carried along, however, Lady Grace could still measure. “But that will be only if he wants and decides for the picture.” “We must make him then want and decide for it--decide, that is, for ‘ours.’ To save it we must work him up--he’ll in that case want it so indecently much. Then _we_ shall have to want it more!” “Well,” she anxiously felt it her duty to remind him, “you can take a horse to water----!” “Oh, trust me to make him drink!” There appeared a note in this that convinced her. “It’s you, Mr. Crimble, who are ‘splendid’!” “Well, I shall be--with my jolly wire!” And all on that scent again, “May I come back to you from the club with Pappendick’s news?” he asked. “Why, rather, of course, come back!” “Only not,” he debated, “till your father has left.” Lady Grace considered too, but sharply decided. “Come when you _have_ it. But tell me first,” she added, “one thing.” She hung fire a little while he waited, but she brought it out. “Was it you who got the ‘Journal’ to speak?” “Ah, one scarcely ‘gets’ the ‘Journal’!” “Who then gave them their ‘tip’?” “About the Mantovano and its peril?” Well, he took a moment--but only not to say; in addition to which the butler had reappeared, entering from the lobby. “I’ll tell you,” he laughed, “when I come back!” Gotch had his manner of announcement while the visitor was mounting the stairs. “Mr. Breckenridge Bender!” “Ah then I go,” said Lady Grace at once. “I’ll stay three minutes.” Hugh turned with her, alertly, to the easier issue, signalling hope and cheer from that threshold as he watched her disappear; after which he faced about with as brave a smile and as ready for immediate action as if she had there within kissed her hand to him. Mr. Bender emerged at the same instant, Gotch withdrawing and closing the door behind him; and the former personage, recognising his young friend, threw up his hands for friendly pleasure. III “Ah, Mr. Crimble,” he cordially inquired, “you’ve come with your great news?” Hugh caught the allusion, it would have seemed, but after a moment. “News of the Moretto? No, Mr. Bender, I haven’t news _yet_.” But he added as with high candour for the visitor’s motion of disappointment: “I think I warned you, you know, that it would take three or four weeks.” “Well, in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back on me--after working me up so down there? The worst I’ve done,” Mr. Bender continued, “is to refuse that Moretto.” “Has it deplorably been _offered_ you?” our young man cried, unmistakably and sincerely affected. After which he went on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with but a large vague blandness that wore in him somehow the mark of tested utility; so that Hugh put him another question: “Aren’t you here, sir, on the chance of the Mantovano?” “I’m here,” he then imperturbably said, “because Lord Theign has wired me to meet him. Ain’t you here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr. Bender added in his homely way: “But you know, Mr. Crimble, what I’m _really_ after.” Hugh’s strategy on this would again have peeped out for us. “The man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ appears at least to have discovered.” “Yes, the man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ has discovered three or four weeks--as it appears to take you here for everything--after my beginning to talk. Why, they knew I was talking _that_ time ago on the other side.” “Oh, they know things in the States,” Hugh cheerfully agreed, “so independently of their happening! But you must have talked loud.” “Well, I haven’t so much talked as raved,” Mr. Bender conceded-- “for I’m afraid that when I do want a thing I rave till I get it. You heard me at Ded-borough, and your enterprising daily press has at last caught the echo.” “Then they’ll make up for lost time! But have you done it,” Hugh asked, “to prepare an alibi?” “An alibi?” “By ‘raving,’ as you say, the saddle on the wrong horse. I don’t think you at all believe you’ll get the Sir Joshua--but meanwhile we shall have cleared up the question of the Moretto.” Mr. Bender, imperturbable, didn’t speak till he had done justice to this picture of his subtlety. “Then, why on earth do you want to boom the Moretto?” “You ask that,” said Hugh, “because it’s the boomed thing that’s most in peril.” “Well, it’s the big, the bigger, the biggest things, and if you drag their value to the light why shouldn’t we want to grab them and carry them off--the same as all of _you_ originally did?” “Ah, not quite the same,” Hugh smiled-- “that I _will_ say for you!” “Yes, you stick it on now--you _have_ got an eye for the rise in values. But I grant you your unearned increment, and you ought to be mighty glad that, to such a time, I’ll pay it you.” Our young man kept, during a moment’s thought, his eyes on his companion, and then resumed with all intensity and candour: “You may easily, Mr. Bender, be too much for me--as you appear too much for far greater people. But may I ask you, very earnestly, for your word on _this_, as to any case in which that happens--that when precious things, things we are to lose here, _are_ knocked down to you, you’ll let us at least take leave of them, let us have a sight of them in London, before they’re borne off?” Mr. Bender’s big face fell almost with a crash. “Hand them over, you mean, to the sandwich men on Bond Street?” “To one or other of the placard and poster men--I don’t insist on the inserted human slice! Let the great values, as a compensation to us, be on view for three or four weeks.” “You ask me,” Mr. Bender returned, “for a _general_ assurance to that effect?” “Well, a particular one--so it be particular enough,” Hugh said-- “will do just for now. Let me put in my plea for the issue--well, of the value that’s actually in the scales.” “The Mantovano-Moretto?” “The Moretto-Mantovano!” Mr. Bender carnivorously smiled. “Hadn’t we better know which it is first?” Hugh had a motion of practical indifference for this. “The public interest--playing so straight on the question--may help to settle it. By which I mean that it will profit enormously--the question of probability, of identity itself will--by the discussion it will create. The discussion will promote certainty----” “And certainty,” Mr. Bender massively mused, “will kick up a row.” “_Of course_ it will kick up a row!” --Hugh thoroughly guaranteed that. “You’ll be, for the month, the best-abused man in England--if you venture to remain here at all; except, naturally, poor Lord Theign.” “Whom it won’t be my interest, at the same time, to worry into backing down.” “But whom it will be exceedingly _mine_ to practise on” --and Hugh laughed as at the fun before them-- “if I may entertain the sweet hope of success. The only thing is--from my point of view,” he went on-- “that backing down before what he will call vulgar clamour isn’t in the least in his traditions, nothing less so; and
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in _my_ country,” Mr. Bender returned with disgust, “it would take three or four minutes! Can’t you make ‘em step more lively?” “I’m expecting, sir,” said Hugh good-humouredly, “a report from hour to hour.” “Then will you let me have it right off?” Hugh indulged in a pause; after which very frankly: “Ah, it’s scarcely for you, Mr. Bender, that I’m acting!” The great collector was but briefly checked. “Well, can’t you just act for Art?” “Oh, you’re doing that yourself so powerfully,” Hugh laughed, “that I think I had best leave it to you!” His friend looked at him as some inspector on circuit might look at a new improvement. “Don’t you want to go round acting _with_ me?” “Go ‘on tour,’ as it were? Oh, frankly, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said, “if I had any weight----!” “You’d add it to your end of the beam? Why, what have I done that _you_ should go back on me--after working me up so down there? The worst I’ve done,” Mr. Bender continued, “is to refuse that Moretto.” “Has it deplorably been _offered_ you?” our young man cried, unmistakably and sincerely affected. After which he went on, as his fellow-visitor only eyed him hard, not, on second thoughts, giving the owner of the great work away: “Then why are you--as if you were a banished Romeo--so keen for news from Verona?” To this odd mixture of business and literature Mr. Bender made no reply, contenting himself with but a large vague blandness that wore in him somehow the mark of tested utility; so that Hugh put him another question: “Aren’t you here, sir, on the chance of the Mantovano?” “I’m here,” he then imperturbably said, “because Lord Theign has wired me to meet him. Ain’t you here for that yourself?” Hugh betrayed for a moment his enjoyment of a “big” choice of answers. “Dear, no! I’ve but been in, by Lady Sandgate’s leave, to see that grand Lawrence.” “Ah yes, she’s very kind about it--one does go ‘in.’” After which Mr. Bender had, even in the atmosphere of his danger, a throb of curiosity. “Is any one _after_ that grand Lawrence?” “Oh, I hope not,” Hugh laughed, “unless you again dreadfully are: wonderful thing as it is and so just in its right place there.” “You call it,” Mr. Bender impartially inquired, “a _very_ wonderful thing?”<|quote|>“Well, as a Lawrence, it has quite bowled me over”</|quote|>--Hugh spoke as for the strictly aesthetic awkwardness of that. “But you know I take my pictures hard.” He gave a punch to his hat, pressed for time in this connection as he was glad truly to appear to his friend. “I must make my little _rapport_.” Yet before it he did seek briefly to explain. “We’re a band of young men who care--and we watch the great things. Also--for I must give you the real truth about myself--we watch the great people.” “Well, I guess I’m used to being watched--if that’s the worst you can do.” To which Mr. Bender added in his homely way: “But you know, Mr. Crimble, what I’m _really_ after.” Hugh’s strategy on this would again have peeped out for us. “The man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ appears at least to have discovered.” “Yes, the man in this morning’s ‘Journal’ has discovered three or four weeks--as it appears to take you here for everything--after my beginning to talk. Why, they knew I was talking _that_ time ago on the other side.” “Oh, they know things in the States,” Hugh cheerfully agreed, “so independently of their happening! But you must have talked loud.” “Well, I haven’t so much talked as raved,” Mr. Bender conceded-- “for I’m afraid that when I do want a thing I rave till I get it. You heard me at Ded-borough, and your enterprising daily press has at last caught the echo.” “Then they’ll make up for lost time! But have you done it,” Hugh asked, “to prepare an alibi?” “An alibi?” “By ‘raving,’ as you say, the saddle on the wrong horse. I don’t think you at all believe you’ll get the Sir Joshua--but meanwhile we shall have cleared up the question of the Moretto.” Mr. Bender, imperturbable, didn’t speak till he had done justice to this picture of his subtlety. “Then, why on earth do you want to boom the Moretto?” “You ask that,” said Hugh, “because it’s the boomed thing that’s most in peril.” “Well, it’s the big, the bigger, the biggest things, and if you drag their value to the light why shouldn’t we want to grab them and carry them off--the same as all of _you_ originally did?” “Ah, not quite the same,” Hugh smiled-- “that I _will_ say for you!” “Yes, you stick it on now--you _have_ got an eye for the rise in values. But I grant you your unearned increment, and you ought to be mighty glad that, to such a time, I’ll pay it you.” Our young man kept, during a moment’s thought, his eyes on his companion, and then resumed with all intensity and candour: “You may easily, Mr. Bender, be too much for me--as you appear too much for far greater people. But may I ask you, very earnestly, for your word on _this_, as to any case in which that happens--that when precious things, things we are to lose here, _are_ knocked down to you, you’ll let us at least take leave of them, let us have a sight of them in London, before they’re borne off?” Mr. Bender’s big face fell almost with a crash. “Hand them over, you mean, to the sandwich men on Bond Street?” “To one or other of the placard and poster men--I don’t insist on the inserted human slice! Let the great values, as a compensation to us, be on view for three or four weeks.” “You ask me,” Mr. Bender returned, “for a _general_ assurance to that effect?” “Well, a particular one--so it be particular enough,” Hugh said-- “will do
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The Outcry
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said Frank to his father:
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No speaker
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that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be
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of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went.
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by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of
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the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his
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carriages,--impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her. Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes." A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward." Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be
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which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant. Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons. Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her. Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes." A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward." Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--" (as soon
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a day as possible. Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness. Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone. CHAPTER II No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing was safe. No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them. Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening. They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize. "So unreasonably early!" she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection. Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant. Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons. Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her. Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes." A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward." Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--" (as soon as she was within the door) "Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance." 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' "said I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--" "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother," 'Upon my word, ma'am--.' "Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know" (eyeing Emma most complacently) "--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself.
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open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant. Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons. Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her. Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes." A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward." Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,"<|quote|>said Frank to his father:</|quote|>"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss
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Emma
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"Good-night, my child."
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Paul's mother
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never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I
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to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and
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and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I
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As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony
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to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave. CHAPTER VIII I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before. I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that
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can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave. CHAPTER VIII I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before. I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that I am glad enough to play on. Two girls are in attendance, one of them is young. The camp is surrounded with high barbed-wire fences. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home we have to show passes. But those who are on good terms with the guard can get through, of course. Between the junipers and the birch trees on the moor we practice company-drill each day. It is bearable if one expects nothing better. We advance at a run, fling ourselves down, and our panting breath moves the stalks of the grasses and the flowers of the heather to and fro. Looked at so closely one sees the fine sand is composed of millions of the tiniest pebbles as clear as if they had been made in a laboratory It is strangely inviting to dig one's hands into it. But most beautiful are the woods with their line of birch trees. Their colour changes with every minute. Now the stems gleam purest white, and between them airy and silken, hangs the pastel-green of the leaves; the next moment all changes to an opalescent blue, as the shivering breezes pass down from the heights and touch the green
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Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps." She is silent. Then she asks gently: "Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave. CHAPTER VIII I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before. I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that I am glad enough to play on. Two girls are in attendance, one of them is young. The camp is surrounded with high barbed-wire fences. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home we have to show passes. But those who are on good terms with the guard can get through, of course. Between the junipers and the birch trees on the moor we practice company-drill each day. It is bearable if one expects nothing better. We advance at a run, fling ourselves down, and our panting breath moves the stalks of the grasses and the flowers of the heather to and fro. Looked at so closely one sees the fine sand is composed of millions of the tiniest pebbles as clear as if they had been made in a laboratory It is strangely inviting to dig one's hands into it. But most beautiful are the woods with their line of birch trees. Their colour changes with every minute. Now the stems gleam purest white, and between them airy and silken, hangs the pastel-green of the leaves; the next moment all changes to an opalescent blue, as the shivering breezes pass down from the heights and touch the green lightly away; and again in one place it deepens almost to black as a cloud passes over the sun. And this shadow moves like a ghost through the dim trunks and passes far out over the moor to the sky--then the birches stand out again like gay banners on white poles, with their red and gold patches of autumn-tinted leaves. I often become so lost in the play of soft light and transparent shadow, that I almost fail to hear the commands. It is when one is alone that one begins to observe Nature and to love her. And here I have not much companionship, and do not even desire it. We are too little acquainted with one another to do more than joke a bit and play poker or nap in the evenings. Alongside our camp is the big Russian prison camp. It is separated from us by a wire fence, but in spite of this the prisoners come across to us. They seem nervous and fearful, though most of them are big fellows with beards--they look like meek, scolded, St. Bernard dogs. They slink about our camp and pick over the garbage tins. One can imagine what they find there. With us food is pretty scarce and none too good at that--turnips cut into six pieces and boiled in water, and unwashed carrot tops;--mouldy potatoes are tit-bits, and the chief luxury is a thin rice soup in which float little bits of beef-sinew, but these are cut up so small that they take a lot of finding. Everything gets eaten, notwithstanding, and if ever anyone is so well off as not to want all his share, there are a dozen others standing by ready to relieve him of it. Only the dregs that the ladle cannot reach are tipped out and thrown into the garbage tins. Along with that sometimes go a few turnip peelings, mouldy bread crusts and all kinds of muck. This thin, miserable, dirty garbage is the objective of the prisoners. They pick it out of the stinking tins greedily and go off with it under their blouses. It is strange to see these enemies of ours so close up. They have faces that make one think--honest peasant faces, broad foreheads, broad noses, broad mouths, broad hands, and thick hair. They ought to be put to threshing, reaping, and apple picking. They look just as
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often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps." She is silent. Then she asks gently: "Are you very much afraid?" "No, mother." "I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good." Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child--why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted, too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang my short, boy's trousers--it is such a little time ago, why is it over? "Where we are there aren't any women, mother," I say as calmly as I can. "And be very careful at the front, Paul." Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! "Yes, mother, I will." "I will pray for you every day, Paul." Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, Mother! "Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous." "Yes, mother, perhaps I can get into the cook-house, that can easily be done." "You do it then, and if the others say anything----" "That won't worry me, mother----" She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. "Now you must go to sleep, mother." She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. "And you must get well again, mother, before I come back." "Yes, yes, my child." "You ought not to send your things to me, mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here." How destitute she lies there in her bed, she, that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: "I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack." Ah! Mother! I know what these underpants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying, and we have so much to say, that we could never say it. "Good-night, mother."<|quote|>"Good-night, my child."</|quote|>The room is dark. I hear my mother's breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack which lies there already made up, because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;--I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave. CHAPTER VIII I already know the camp on the moors. It was here that Himmelstoss gave Tjaden his education. But now I know hardly anyone here; as ever, all is altered. There are only a few people that I have occasionally met before. I go through the routine mechanically. In the evenings I generally go to the Soldiers' Home, where the newspapers are laid out, but which I do not read; still, there is a piano there that I am glad enough to play on. Two girls are in attendance, one of them is young. The camp is surrounded with high barbed-wire fences. If we come back late from the Soldiers' Home we have to show passes. But those who are on good terms with the guard can get through, of course. Between the junipers and the birch trees on the moor we practice company-drill each day. It is bearable if one expects nothing better. We advance at a run, fling ourselves down, and our panting breath moves the stalks of the grasses and the flowers of the heather to and fro. Looked at so closely one sees the fine sand is
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All Quiet on the Western Front
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she answered with great feeling,
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No speaker
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Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"Thank you, sir. The same
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take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said, "Your health, ma'am!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also."
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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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"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
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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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"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
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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." "She never takes cold," 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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"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
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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." "She never takes cold," 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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"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
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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." "She never takes cold," 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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo," returned her brother, "you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to,
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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." "She never takes cold," 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!"<|quote|>she answered with great feeling,</|quote|>"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,
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Hard Times
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"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"
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Aunt Juley
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tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another.
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as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or
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does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances
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and because we don t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what s a joke up here is down there reality." "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would
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like. I call it going through life with one s hand spread open on the table. I m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what s a joke up here is down there reality." "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There s a housemaid who won t say yes but doesn t say no." On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter, but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp,
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sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its very existence. It s only when we see some one near us tottering that we realise all that an independent income means. Last night, when we were talking up here round the fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin." "I call that rather cynical." "So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to criticise others, that we are standing on these islands, and that most of the others are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and couldn t invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." "That s more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one s hand spread open on the table. I m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what s a joke up here is down there reality." "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There s a housemaid who won t say yes but doesn t say no." On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter, but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition--they could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting love. They were--she saw it clearly--Journalism; her father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed her, and though she
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There s Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." "I knew it. And there s Mr. Wilcox." "It s a shame to call his face copper colour," complained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age." Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. "Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there s no need for plans." "It s as well to be prepared." "No--it s as well not to be prepared." "Why?" "Because--" Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock: those who attempt human relations must adopt another method, or fail. "Because I d sooner risk it," was her lame conclusion. "But imagine the evenings," exclaimed her aunt, pointing to the Mansions with the spout of the watering can. "Turn the electric light on here or there, and it s almost the same room. One evening they may forget to draw their blinds down, and you ll see them; and the next, you yours, and they ll see you. Impossible to sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants, or even speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you d rather risk it." "I hope to risk things all my life." "Oh, Margaret, most dangerous." "But after all," she continued with a smile, "there s never any great risk as long as you have money." "Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!" "Money pads the edges of things," said Miss Schlegel. "God help those who have none." "But this is something quite new!" said Mrs. Munt, who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and was especially attracted by those that are portable. "New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its very existence. It s only when we see some one near us tottering that we realise all that an independent income means. Last night, when we were talking up here round the fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of love, but the absence of coin." "I call that rather cynical." "So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to criticise others, that we are standing on these islands, and that most of the others are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and couldn t invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." "That s more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one s hand spread open on the table. I m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what s a joke up here is down there reality." "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There s a housemaid who won t say yes but doesn t say no." On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter, but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition--they could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting love. They were--she saw it clearly--Journalism; her father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the Wilcoxes flat, and took the rather matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen. "Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you." "If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. "The Ws coming." "No, of course not." "Really?" "Really." Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox s account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the other members of that clan. "I shan t mind if Paul points at our house and says, There lives the girl who tried to catch me. But she might." "If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There s no reason we should be near people who displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our money. We might even go away for a little." "Well, I am going away. Frieda s just asked me to Stettin, and I shan t be back till after the New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?" "Oh, I m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but really I--I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice and" "--she cleared her throat--" "you did go red, you know, when Aunt Juley attacked you this morning. I shouldn t have referred to it otherwise." But Helen s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. CHAPTER VIII The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop so quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she had
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whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and couldn t invoke railways and motor-cars to part them." "That s more like Socialism," said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. "Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one s hand spread open on the table. I m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed--from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what s a joke up here is down there reality." "There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh!--" "What is it?" "Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes flat." "Why shouldn t she?" "I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality?" "I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied.<|quote|>"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?"</|quote|>"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things." "Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There s a housemaid who won t say yes but doesn t say no." On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter, but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition--they could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting love. They were--she saw it clearly--Journalism; her father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the Wilcoxes flat, and took the rather matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen. "Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you." "If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. "The Ws coming." "No, of course not." "Really?" "Really." Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox s account; she
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Howards End
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"Swim after them!"
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The Gryphon
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to sea as you can--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a
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the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried
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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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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,
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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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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.
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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" ") "--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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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
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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" ") "--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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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,"
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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" ") "--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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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 are _your_ shoes done with?" said the Gryphon. "I mean, what makes them so shiny?" Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. "They're done with blacking, I believe." "Boots and shoes under the sea," the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, "are done with a whiting. Now you know." "And what are they made of?" Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity. "Soles and eels, of course," the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: "any shrimp could have told you that." "If I'd been the whiting," said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, "I'd have said to the porpoise, 'Keep back, please: we don't want _you_ with us!'" "They were obliged to have him with them," the Mock Turtle said: "no wise fish would go anywhere
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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" ") "--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--"<|quote|>"Swim after them!"</|quote|>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
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."
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Winnie-the-pooh
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jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when
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went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't.
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see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to
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his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened.
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said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a
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is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear,"
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Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice, "I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?" "Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!" "Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in," said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, am I?" Christopher Robin looked at him very carefully, and shook his head. "You can't be Roo," he said, "because I've just seen Roo playing in Rabbit's house." "Well!" said Kanga. "Fancy that! Fancy my making a mistake like that." "There you are!" said Piglet. "I told you so. I'm Piglet." Christopher Robin shook his head again. "Oh, you're not Piglet," he said. "I know Piglet well, and he's _quite_ a different colour." Piglet began to say that this was because he had just had a bath, and then he thought that perhaps he wouldn't say that, and as he opened his mouth to say something else, Kanga slipped the medicine spoon in, and then patted him on the back and told him that it was really quite a nice taste when you got used to it. "I knew it wasn't Piglet," said Kanga. "I wonder who it can be." "Perhaps it's some relation of Pooh's," said Christopher Robin. "What about a nephew or an uncle or something?" Kanga agreed that this was probably
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silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is," said Rabbit. "Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought.<|quote|>"Some can and some can't. That's how it is."</|quote|>But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!" "Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in," said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet,
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Winnie The Pooh
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said Aladdin,
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No speaker
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"I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says
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your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on
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soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he
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soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long." As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a
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tears in his eyes. Aladdin, who observed his tears, asked him what made him weep. "Alas! my son," cried the African magician with a sigh, "how can I forbear? I am your uncle; your worthy father was my own brother. I have been many years abroad, and now I am come home with the hopes of seeing him, you tell me he is dead. But it is some relief to my affliction, that I knew you at first sight, you are so like him." Then he asked Aladdin, putting his hand into his purse, where his mother lived, and as soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long." As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a long time, and I never heard of another." The mother and son talked no more then of the African magician; but the next day Aladdin's uncle found him playing in another part of the town with other youths, and embracing him as before, put two pieces of gold into his hand, and said to him: "Carry this, child, to your mother, tell her that I will come and see her to-night, and bid her get us something for supper; but first show me the house where you live." After Aladdin had showed the African magician the house, he carried the
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whenever she chid him he would abuse her, gave himself entirely over to his idle habits, and was never out of the streets from his companions. This course he followed till he was fifteen years old, without giving his mind to any useful pursuit, or the least reflection on what would become of him. In this situation, as he was one day playing with his vagabond associates, a stranger passing by stood to observe him. This stranger was a sorcerer, called the African magician; as he was a native of Africa, and had been but two days arrived from thence. The African magician, who was a good physiognomist, observing in Aladdin's countenance something absolutely necessary for the execution of the design he was engaged in, inquired artfully about his family, who he was, and what were his inclinations; and when he had learned all he desired to know, went up to him, and taking him aside from his comrades, said: "Child, was not your father called Mustapha, the tailor?" "Yes, sir," answered the boy; "but he has been dead a long time." At these words, the African magician threw his arms about Aladdin's neck, and kissed him several times with tears in his eyes. Aladdin, who observed his tears, asked him what made him weep. "Alas! my son," cried the African magician with a sigh, "how can I forbear? I am your uncle; your worthy father was my own brother. I have been many years abroad, and now I am come home with the hopes of seeing him, you tell me he is dead. But it is some relief to my affliction, that I knew you at first sight, you are so like him." Then he asked Aladdin, putting his hand into his purse, where his mother lived, and as soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long." As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a long time, and I never heard of another." The mother and son talked no more then of the African magician; but the next day Aladdin's uncle found him playing in another part of the town with other youths, and embracing him as before, put two pieces of gold into his hand, and said to him: "Carry this, child, to your mother, tell her that I will come and see her to-night, and bid her get us something for supper; but first show me the house where you live." After Aladdin had showed the African magician the house, he carried the two pieces of gold to his mother, and when he had told her of his uncle's intention, she went out and bought provisions. She spent the whole day in preparing the supper; and at night, when it was ready, said to her son: "Perhaps your uncle knows not how to find our house; go and bring him if you meet with him." Though Aladdin had showed the magician the house, he was ready to go, when somebody knocked at the door, which he immediately opened; and the magician came in loaded with wine, and all sorts of fruits, which he brought for a dessert. After the African magician had given what he brought into Aladdin's hands, he saluted his mother, and desired her to shew him the place where his brother Mustapha used to sit on the sofa; and when she had so done, he fell down and kissed it several times, crying out with tears in his eyes: "My poor brother! how unhappy am I, not to have come soon enough to give you one last embrace." Aladdin's mother desired him to sit down in the same place, but he declined. "No," said he, "but give me leave to
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THE STORY OF ALADDIN; OR, THE WONDERFUL LAMP In the capital of one of the large and rich provinces of the kingdom of China there lived a tailor, named Mustapha, who was so poor that he could hardly, by his daily labour, maintain himself and his family, which consisted of a wife and son. His son, who was called Aladdin, had been brought up in a very careless and idle manner, and by that means had contracted many vicious habits. He was obstinate, and disobedient to his father and mother, who, when he grew up, could not keep him within doors. He was in the habit of going out early in the morning, and would stay out all day, playing in the streets with idle children of his own age. When he was old enough to learn a trade, his father, not being able to put him out to any other, took him into his own shop, and taught him how to use his needle: but neither fair words nor the fear of chastisement were capable of fixing his lively genius. All his father's endeavours to keep him to his work were in vain; for no sooner was his back turned, than he was gone for that day. Mustapha chastised him, but Aladdin was incorrigible, and his father, to his great grief, was forced to abandon him to his idleness: and was so much troubled at not being able to reclaim him, that it threw him into a fit of sickness, of which he died in a few months. The mother, finding that her son would not follow his father's business, shut up the shop, sold off the implements of trade, and with the money she received for them, and what she could get by spinning cotton, thought to maintain herself and her son. Aladdin, who was now no longer restrained by the fear of a father, and who cared so little for his mother that whenever she chid him he would abuse her, gave himself entirely over to his idle habits, and was never out of the streets from his companions. This course he followed till he was fifteen years old, without giving his mind to any useful pursuit, or the least reflection on what would become of him. In this situation, as he was one day playing with his vagabond associates, a stranger passing by stood to observe him. This stranger was a sorcerer, called the African magician; as he was a native of Africa, and had been but two days arrived from thence. The African magician, who was a good physiognomist, observing in Aladdin's countenance something absolutely necessary for the execution of the design he was engaged in, inquired artfully about his family, who he was, and what were his inclinations; and when he had learned all he desired to know, went up to him, and taking him aside from his comrades, said: "Child, was not your father called Mustapha, the tailor?" "Yes, sir," answered the boy; "but he has been dead a long time." At these words, the African magician threw his arms about Aladdin's neck, and kissed him several times with tears in his eyes. Aladdin, who observed his tears, asked him what made him weep. "Alas! my son," cried the African magician with a sigh, "how can I forbear? I am your uncle; your worthy father was my own brother. I have been many years abroad, and now I am come home with the hopes of seeing him, you tell me he is dead. But it is some relief to my affliction, that I knew you at first sight, you are so like him." Then he asked Aladdin, putting his hand into his purse, where his mother lived, and as soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long." As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a long time, and I never heard of another." The mother and son talked no more then of the African magician; but the next day Aladdin's uncle found him playing in another part of the town with other youths, and embracing him as before, put two pieces of gold into his hand, and said to him: "Carry this, child, to your mother, tell her that I will come and see her to-night, and bid her get us something for supper; but first show me the house where you live." After Aladdin had showed the African magician the house, he carried the two pieces of gold to his mother, and when he had told her of his uncle's intention, she went out and bought provisions. She spent the whole day in preparing the supper; and at night, when it was ready, said to her son: "Perhaps your uncle knows not how to find our house; go and bring him if you meet with him." Though Aladdin had showed the magician the house, he was ready to go, when somebody knocked at the door, which he immediately opened; and the magician came in loaded with wine, and all sorts of fruits, which he brought for a dessert. After the African magician had given what he brought into Aladdin's hands, he saluted his mother, and desired her to shew him the place where his brother Mustapha used to sit on the sofa; and when she had so done, he fell down and kissed it several times, crying out with tears in his eyes: "My poor brother! how unhappy am I, not to have come soon enough to give you one last embrace." Aladdin's mother desired him to sit down in the same place, but he declined. "No," said he, "but give me leave to sit opposite, that although I am deprived of the satisfaction of seeing one so dear to me, I may at least have the pleasure of beholding the place where he used to sit." When the magician had sat down, he began to enter into discourse with Aladdin's mother: "My good sister," said he, "do not be surprised at your never having seen me all the time you were married to my brother Mustapha. I have been forty years absent from this country, which is my native place, as well as my late brother's; and during that time have travelled into the Indies, Persia, Arabia, Syria, and Egypt; have resided in the finest towns of those countries; and afterward crossed over into Africa, where I made a longer stay. At last, as it is natural for a man to remember his native country, I was desirous to see mine again, and to embrace my dear brother; and finding I had strength enough to undertake so long a journey, I immediately made the necessary preparations, and set out. I will not tell you the length of time it took me, all the obstacles I met with, and what fatigues I have endured to come hither; but nothing ever afflicted me so much, as hearing of my brother's death. I observed his features in the face of my nephew, your son, and distinguished him among a number of lads with whom he was at play; he can tell you how I received the most melancholy news that ever reached my ears. But God be praised for all things! it is a comfort for me to find, as it were, my brother in a son, who has his most remarkable features." The African magician, perceiving that the widow began to weep at the remembrance of her husband, changed the conversation, and turning toward her son, asked him his name. "I am called Aladdin," said he. "Well, Aladdin," replied the magician, "what business do you follow? Are you of any trade?" At this question the youth hung down his head, and was not a little abashed when his mother answered: "Aladdin is an idle fellow; his father, when alive, strove all he could to teach him his trade, but could not succeed; and since his death he does nothing but idle away his time in the streets, as you saw him, without considering he is
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of him. In this situation, as he was one day playing with his vagabond associates, a stranger passing by stood to observe him. This stranger was a sorcerer, called the African magician; as he was a native of Africa, and had been but two days arrived from thence. The African magician, who was a good physiognomist, observing in Aladdin's countenance something absolutely necessary for the execution of the design he was engaged in, inquired artfully about his family, who he was, and what were his inclinations; and when he had learned all he desired to know, went up to him, and taking him aside from his comrades, said: "Child, was not your father called Mustapha, the tailor?" "Yes, sir," answered the boy; "but he has been dead a long time." At these words, the African magician threw his arms about Aladdin's neck, and kissed him several times with tears in his eyes. Aladdin, who observed his tears, asked him what made him weep. "Alas! my son," cried the African magician with a sigh, "how can I forbear? I am your uncle; your worthy father was my own brother. I have been many years abroad, and now I am come home with the hopes of seeing him, you tell me he is dead. But it is some relief to my affliction, that I knew you at first sight, you are so like him." Then he asked Aladdin, putting his hand into his purse, where his mother lived, and as soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long." As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come,"<|quote|>said Aladdin,</|quote|>"from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a long time, and I never heard of another." The mother and son talked no more then of the African magician; but the next day Aladdin's uncle found him playing in another part of the town with other youths, and embracing him as before, put two pieces of gold into his hand, and said to him: "Carry this, child, to your mother, tell her that I will come and see her to-night, and bid her get us something for supper; but first show me the house where you live." After Aladdin had showed the African magician the house, he carried the two pieces of gold to his mother, and when he had told her of his uncle's intention, she went out and bought provisions. She spent the whole day in preparing the supper; and at night, when it was ready, said to her son: "Perhaps your uncle knows not how to find our house; go and bring him if you meet with him." Though Aladdin had showed the magician the house, he was ready to go, when somebody knocked at the door, which he immediately opened; and the magician came in loaded with wine, and all sorts of fruits, which he brought for a dessert. After the African magician had given what he brought into Aladdin's hands, he saluted his mother, and desired her to shew him the place where his brother Mustapha used to sit on the sofa; and when she had so done, he fell down and kissed it several times, crying out with tears in his eyes: "My poor brother! how unhappy am I, not to have come soon enough to give you one last embrace." Aladdin's mother desired him to sit down in the same place, but he declined. "No," said he, "but give me leave to sit opposite, that although I am deprived of the satisfaction of seeing one so dear to me, I may at least have the pleasure of beholding the place where he used to sit." When the magician had sat down, he began to enter into discourse with Aladdin's mother: "My good sister," said he, "do not be surprised at your never having seen me all the time you were married to my brother Mustapha. I have been forty years absent from this country, which is my native place, as well as my late brother's; and during that time have travelled into the Indies, Persia, Arabia, Syria, and Egypt; have resided in the finest towns of those countries; and afterward crossed over into Africa, where I made a longer stay. At last, as it is natural for a man to remember his native country, I was desirous to see mine again, and to embrace my dear
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Arabian Nights (4)
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"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."
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Harriet
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shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the
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its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say
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if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet
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As Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn t digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she looked at her watch. "It s twelve! The second post s in. Run and see if there are any letters." Harriet did not want to go.
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its day. The weather was lovely, and she thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite early. She called Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St. James s, and together they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow some early vegetables. "We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun," said Mrs. Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her elderly daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great deal in common. Harriet s education had been almost too successful. As Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn t digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she looked at her watch. "It s twelve! The second post s in. Run and see if there are any letters." Harriet did not want to go. "Let s finish the peas. There won t be any letters." "No, dear; please go. I ll sow the peas, but you shall cover them up--and mind the birds don t see em!" Mrs. Herriton was very careful to let those peas trickle evenly from her hand, and at the end of the row she was conscious that she had never sown better. They were expensive too. "Actually old Mrs. Theobald!" said Harriet, returning. "Read me the letter. My hands are dirty. How intolerable the crested paper is." Harriet opened the envelope. "I don t understand," she said; "it doesn
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it. It is not only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their simplicity and charm here. The frescoes are wonderful. Caroline, who grows sweeter every day, is very busy sketching." "Every one to his taste!" said Harriet, who always delivered a platitude as if it was an epigram. She was curiously virulent about Italy, which she had never visited, her only experience of the Continent being an occasional six weeks in the Protestant parts of Switzerland. "Oh, Harriet is a bad lot!" said Philip as soon as she left the room. His mother laughed, and told him not to be naughty; and the appearance of Irma, just off to school, prevented further discussion. Not only in Tracts is a child a peacemaker. "One moment, Irma," said her uncle. "I m going to the station. I ll give you the pleasure of my company." They started together. Irma was gratified; but conversation flagged, for Philip had not the art of talking to the young. Mrs. Herriton sat a little longer at the breakfast table, re-reading Lilia s letter. Then she helped the cook to clear, ordered dinner, and started the housemaid turning out the drawing-room, Tuesday being its day. The weather was lovely, and she thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite early. She called Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St. James s, and together they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow some early vegetables. "We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun," said Mrs. Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her elderly daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great deal in common. Harriet s education had been almost too successful. As Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn t digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she looked at her watch. "It s twelve! The second post s in. Run and see if there are any letters." Harriet did not want to go. "Let s finish the peas. There won t be any letters." "No, dear; please go. I ll sow the peas, but you shall cover them up--and mind the birds don t see em!" Mrs. Herriton was very careful to let those peas trickle evenly from her hand, and at the end of the row she was conscious that she had never sown better. They were expensive too. "Actually old Mrs. Theobald!" said Harriet, returning. "Read me the letter. My hands are dirty. How intolerable the crested paper is." Harriet opened the envelope. "I don t understand," she said; "it doesn t make sense." "Her letters never did." "But it must be sillier than usual," said Harriet, and her voice began to quaver. "Look here, read it, Mother; I can t make head or tail." Mrs. Herriton took the letter indulgently. "What is the difficulty?" she said after a long pause. "What is it that puzzles you in this letter?" "The meaning--" faltered Harriet. The sparrows hopped nearer and began to eye the peas. "The meaning is quite clear--Lilia is engaged to be married. Don t cry, dear; please me by not crying--don t talk at all. It s more than I could bear. She is going to marry some one she has met in a hotel. Take the letter and read for yourself." Suddenly she broke down over what might seem a small point. "How dare she not tell me direct! How dare she write first to Yorkshire! Pray, am I to hear through Mrs. Theobald--a patronizing, insolent letter like this? Have I no claim at all? Bear witness, dear" "--she choked with passion--" "bear witness that for this I ll never forgive her!" "Oh, what is to be done?" moaned Harriet. "What is to be done?" "This first!" She
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Gothic window every morning, it seems impossible that the middle ages have passed away." The letter was from Monteriano, and concluded with a not unsuccessful description of the wonderful little town. "It is something that she is contented," said Mrs. Herriton. "But no one could live three months with Caroline Abbott and not be the better for it." Just then Irma came in from school, and she read her mother s letter to her, carefully correcting any grammatical errors, for she was a loyal supporter of parental authority--Irma listened politely, but soon changed the subject to hockey, in which her whole being was absorbed. They were to vote for colours that afternoon--yellow and white or yellow and green. What did her grandmother think? Of course Mrs. Herriton had an opinion, which she sedately expounded, in spite of Harriet, who said that colours were unnecessary for children, and of Philip, who said that they were ugly. She was getting proud of Irma, who had certainly greatly improved, and could no longer be called that most appalling of things--a vulgar child. She was anxious to form her before her mother returned. So she had no objection to the leisurely movements of the travellers, and even suggested that they should overstay their year if it suited them. Lilia s next letter was also from Monteriano, and Philip grew quite enthusiastic. "They ve stopped there over a week!" he cried. "Why! I shouldn t have done as much myself. They must be really keen, for the hotel s none too comfortable." "I cannot understand people," said Harriet. "What can they be doing all day? And there is no church there, I suppose." "There is Santa Deodata, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy." "Of course I mean an English church," said Harriet stiffly. "Lilia promised me that she would always be in a large town on Sundays." "If she goes to a service at Santa Deodata s, she will find more beauty and sincerity than there is in all the Back Kitchens of Europe." The Back Kitchen was his nickname for St. James s, a small depressing edifice much patronized by his sister. She always resented any slight on it, and Mrs. Herriton had to intervene. "Now, dears, don t. Listen to Lilia s letter. We love this place, and I do not know how I shall ever thank Philip for telling me it. It is not only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their simplicity and charm here. The frescoes are wonderful. Caroline, who grows sweeter every day, is very busy sketching." "Every one to his taste!" said Harriet, who always delivered a platitude as if it was an epigram. She was curiously virulent about Italy, which she had never visited, her only experience of the Continent being an occasional six weeks in the Protestant parts of Switzerland. "Oh, Harriet is a bad lot!" said Philip as soon as she left the room. His mother laughed, and told him not to be naughty; and the appearance of Irma, just off to school, prevented further discussion. Not only in Tracts is a child a peacemaker. "One moment, Irma," said her uncle. "I m going to the station. I ll give you the pleasure of my company." They started together. Irma was gratified; but conversation flagged, for Philip had not the art of talking to the young. Mrs. Herriton sat a little longer at the breakfast table, re-reading Lilia s letter. Then she helped the cook to clear, ordered dinner, and started the housemaid turning out the drawing-room, Tuesday being its day. The weather was lovely, and she thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite early. She called Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St. James s, and together they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow some early vegetables. "We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun," said Mrs. Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her elderly daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great deal in common. Harriet s education had been almost too successful. As Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn t digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she looked at her watch. "It s twelve! The second post s in. Run and see if there are any letters." Harriet did not want to go. "Let s finish the peas. There won t be any letters." "No, dear; please go. I ll sow the peas, but you shall cover them up--and mind the birds don t see em!" Mrs. Herriton was very careful to let those peas trickle evenly from her hand, and at the end of the row she was conscious that she had never sown better. They were expensive too. "Actually old Mrs. Theobald!" said Harriet, returning. "Read me the letter. My hands are dirty. How intolerable the crested paper is." Harriet opened the envelope. "I don t understand," she said; "it doesn t make sense." "Her letters never did." "But it must be sillier than usual," said Harriet, and her voice began to quaver. "Look here, read it, Mother; I can t make head or tail." Mrs. Herriton took the letter indulgently. "What is the difficulty?" she said after a long pause. "What is it that puzzles you in this letter?" "The meaning--" faltered Harriet. The sparrows hopped nearer and began to eye the peas. "The meaning is quite clear--Lilia is engaged to be married. Don t cry, dear; please me by not crying--don t talk at all. It s more than I could bear. She is going to marry some one she has met in a hotel. Take the letter and read for yourself." Suddenly she broke down over what might seem a small point. "How dare she not tell me direct! How dare she write first to Yorkshire! Pray, am I to hear through Mrs. Theobald--a patronizing, insolent letter like this? Have I no claim at all? Bear witness, dear" "--she choked with passion--" "bear witness that for this I ll never forgive her!" "Oh, what is to be done?" moaned Harriet. "What is to be done?" "This first!" She tore the letter into little pieces and scattered it over the mould. "Next, a telegram for Lilia! No! a telegram for Miss Caroline Abbott. She, too, has something to explain." "Oh, what is to be done?" repeated Harriet, as she followed her mother to the house. She was helpless before such effrontery. What awful thing--what awful person had come to Lilia? "Some one in the hotel." The letter only said that. What kind of person? A gentleman? An Englishman? The letter did not say. "Wire reason of stay at Monteriano. Strange rumours," read Mrs. Herriton, and addressed the telegram to Abbott, Stella d Italia, Monteriano, Italy. "If there is an office there," she added, "we might get an answer this evening. Since Philip is back at seven, and the eight-fifteen catches the midnight boat at Dover--Harriet, when you go with this, get 100 pounds in 5 pound notes at the bank." "Go, dear, at once; do not talk. I see Irma coming back; go quickly.... Well, Irma dear, and whose team are you in this afternoon--Miss Edith s or Miss May s?" But as soon as she had behaved as usual to her grand-daughter, she went to the library and took out the large atlas, for she wanted to know about Monteriano. The name was in the smallest print, in the midst of a woolly-brown tangle of hills which were called the "Sub-Apennines." It was not so very far from Siena, which she had learnt at school. Past it there wandered a thin black line, notched at intervals like a saw, and she knew that this was a railway. But the map left a good deal to imagination, and she had not got any. She looked up the place in "Childe Harold," but Byron had not been there. Nor did Mark Twain visit it in the "Tramp Abroad." The resources of literature were exhausted: she must wait till Philip came home. And the thought of Philip made her try Philip s room, and there she found "Central Italy," by Baedeker, and opened it for the first time in her life and read in it as follows:-- MONTERIANO (pop. 4800). Hotels: Stella d Italia, moderate only; Globo, dirty. * Caffe Garibaldi. Post and Telegraph office in Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, next to theatre. Photographs at Seghena s (cheaper in Florence). Diligence (1 lira) meets principal trains. Chief attractions (2-3 hours): Santa Deodata,
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the hotel s none too comfortable." "I cannot understand people," said Harriet. "What can they be doing all day? And there is no church there, I suppose." "There is Santa Deodata, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy." "Of course I mean an English church," said Harriet stiffly. "Lilia promised me that she would always be in a large town on Sundays." "If she goes to a service at Santa Deodata s, she will find more beauty and sincerity than there is in all the Back Kitchens of Europe." The Back Kitchen was his nickname for St. James s, a small depressing edifice much patronized by his sister. She always resented any slight on it, and Mrs. Herriton had to intervene. "Now, dears, don t. Listen to Lilia s letter. We love this place, and I do not know how I shall ever thank Philip for telling me it. It is not only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their simplicity and charm here. The frescoes are wonderful. Caroline, who grows sweeter every day, is very busy sketching." "Every one to his taste!" said Harriet, who always delivered a platitude as if it was an epigram. She was curiously virulent about Italy, which she had never visited, her only experience of the Continent being an occasional six weeks in the Protestant parts of Switzerland. "Oh, Harriet is a bad lot!" said Philip as soon as she left the room. His mother laughed, and told him not to be naughty; and the appearance of Irma, just off to school, prevented further discussion. Not only in Tracts is a child a peacemaker. "One moment, Irma," said her uncle. "I m going to the station. I ll give you the pleasure of my company." They started together. Irma was gratified; but conversation flagged, for Philip had not the art of talking to the young. Mrs. Herriton sat a little longer at the breakfast table, re-reading Lilia s letter. Then she helped the cook to clear, ordered dinner, and started the housemaid turning out the drawing-room, Tuesday being its day. The weather was lovely, and she thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite early. She called Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St. James s, and together they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow some early vegetables. "We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun," said Mrs. Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her elderly daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great deal in common. Harriet s education had been almost too successful. As Philip once said, she had "bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn t digest them." Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. "It s a shame, Mother!" she had cried.<|quote|>"Philip laughs at everything--the Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. People won t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against itself cannot stand."</|quote|>Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, "Let Philip say what he likes, and he will let us do what we like." And Harriet had acquiesced. They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she looked at her watch. "It s twelve! The second post s in. Run and see if there are any letters." Harriet did not want to go. "Let s finish the peas. There won t be any letters." "No, dear; please go. I ll sow the peas, but you shall cover them up--and mind the birds don t see em!" Mrs. Herriton was very careful to let those peas trickle evenly from her hand, and at the end of the row she was conscious that she had never sown better. They were expensive too. "Actually old Mrs. Theobald!" said Harriet, returning. "Read me the letter. My hands are dirty. How intolerable the crested paper is." Harriet opened the envelope. "I don t understand," she said; "it doesn t make sense." "Her letters never did." "But it must be sillier than usual," said Harriet, and her voice began to quaver. "Look here, read it, Mother; I can t make head or tail." Mrs. Herriton took the letter indulgently. "What is the difficulty?" she said after a long pause. "What is it that puzzles you in this letter?" "The meaning--" faltered Harriet. The sparrows hopped nearer and began
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Where Angels Fear To Tread
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said the Queen.
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No speaker
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Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or
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is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice.
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Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!"
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head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen,
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gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon,
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than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and
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be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. "The game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. "'Tis so," said the Duchess: "and the moral of that is--'Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'" "Somebody said," Alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!" "Ah, well! It means much the same thing," said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of _that_ is--'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'" "How fond she is of finding morals in things!" Alice thought to herself. "I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist," the Duchess said after a pause: "the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?" "He might bite," Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. "Very true," said the Duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "Only mustard isn't a bird," Alice remarked. "Right, as usual," said the Duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!" "It's a mineral, I _think_," said Alice. "Of course it is," said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; "there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--'The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'" "Oh, I know!" exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, "it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is." "I quite agree with you," said the Duchess; "and the moral of that is--'Be what you would seem to be'--or if you'd like it put more simply--'Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'" "I think I should understand that better," Alice said very politely, "if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it." "That's nothing to what I could say if I chose," the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. "Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said Alice. "Oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the Duchess. "I make you a present of everything I've said as yet." "A cheap sort of present!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!" But she did not venture to say it out loud. "Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. "I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. "Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly; and the m--" But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be 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."
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in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm. "A fine day, your Majesty!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!" The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment. "Let's go on with the game," the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the croquet-ground. The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives. All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting "Off with his head!" or "Off with her head!" Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and under sentence of execution. Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, "Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?" "No," said Alice. "I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is." "It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,"<|quote|>said the Queen.</|quote|>"I never saw one, or heard of one," said Alice. "Come on, then," said the Queen, "and he shall tell you his history," As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally, "You are all pardoned." "Come, _that's_ a good thing!" she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered. They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) "Up, lazy thing!" said the Queen, "and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered;" and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. "What fun!" said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. "What
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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said the count.
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No speaker
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a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have
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"Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over
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A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She
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chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must
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in sight, Brett said: "Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something?" "Don't be silly." "Kiss me just once more before we get there." When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who a been at the dance. "Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?" "He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in. "Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said. "I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks. "I have to shove off," I said. "Good night." I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked. "No. Thanks awfully. I have to go." "Really going?" Brett asked. "Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "Come in at the office." "Hardly." "Well, where will I see you?" "Anywhere
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had probably considered it from most of its various angles, including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject of merriment while remaining quite serious for the person possessing them. "It's funny," I said. "It's very funny. And it's a lot of fun, too, to be in love." "Do you think so?" her eyes looked flat again. "I don't mean fun that way. In a way it's an enjoyable feeling." "No," she said. "I think it's hell on earth." "It's good to see each other." "No. I don't think it is." "Don't you want to?" "I have to." We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right was the Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. Brett turned her head away. "Oh, go to the Select." "Caf Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." We drove straight down, turning around the Lion de Belfort that guards the passing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: "Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something?" "Don't be silly." "Kiss me just once more before we get there." When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who a been at the dance. "Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?" "He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in. "Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said. "I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks. "I have to shove off," I said. "Good night." I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked. "No. Thanks awfully. I have to go." "Really going?" Brett asked. "Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "Come in at the office." "Hardly." "Well, where will I see you?" "Anywhere around five o'clock." "Make it the other side of town then." "Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five." "Try and be there," I said. "Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?" "Heard from Mike?" "Letter to-day." "Good night, sir," said the count. I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St. Michel. There
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line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her head was down. "Don't touch me," she said. "Please don't touch me." "What's the matter?" "I can't stand it." "Oh, Brett." "You mustn't. You must know. I can't stand it, that's all. Oh, darling, please understand!" "Don't you love me?" "Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me." "Isn't there anything we can do about it?" She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things. "And there's not a damn thing we could do," I said. "I don't know," she said. "I don't want to go through that hell again." "We'd better keep away from each other." "But, darling, I have to see you. It isn't all that you know." "No, but it always gets to be." "That's my fault. Don't we pay for all the things we do, though?" She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her eyes had different depths, sometimes they seemed perfectly flat. Now you could see all the way into them. "When I think of the hell I've put chaps through. I'm paying for it all now." "Don't talk like a fool," I said. "Besides, what happened to me is supposed to be funny. I never think about it." "Oh, no. I'll lay you don't." "Well, let's shut up about it." "I laughed about it too, myself, once." She wasn't looking at me. "A friend of my brother's came home that way from Mons. It seemed like a hell of a joke. Chaps never know anything, do they?" "No," I said. "Nobody ever knows anything." I was pretty well through with the subject. At one time or another I had probably considered it from most of its various angles, including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject of merriment while remaining quite serious for the person possessing them. "It's funny," I said. "It's very funny. And it's a lot of fun, too, to be in love." "Do you think so?" her eyes looked flat again. "I don't mean fun that way. In a way it's an enjoyable feeling." "No," she said. "I think it's hell on earth." "It's good to see each other." "No. I don't think it is." "Don't you want to?" "I have to." We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right was the Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. Brett turned her head away. "Oh, go to the Select." "Caf Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." We drove straight down, turning around the Lion de Belfort that guards the passing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: "Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something?" "Don't be silly." "Kiss me just once more before we get there." When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who a been at the dance. "Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?" "He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in. "Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said. "I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks. "I have to shove off," I said. "Good night." I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked. "No. Thanks awfully. I have to go." "Really going?" Brett asked. "Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "Come in at the office." "Hardly." "Well, where will I see you?" "Anywhere around five o'clock." "Make it the other side of town then." "Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five." "Try and be there," I said. "Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?" "Heard from Mike?" "Letter to-day." "Good night, sir," said the count. I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St. Michel. There was a light in the concierge's room and I knocked on the door and she gave me my mail. I wished her good night and went up-stairs. There were two letters and some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light in the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One was a bank statement. It showed a balance of $2432.60. I got out my check-book and deducted four checks drawn since the first of the month, and discovered I had a balance of $1832.60. I wrote this on the back of the statement. The other letter was a wedding announcement. Mr. and Mrs. Aloysius Kirby announce the marriage of their daughter Katherine--I knew neither the girl nor the man she was marrying. They must be circularizing the town. It was a funny name. I felt sure I could remember anybody with a name like Aloysius. It was a good Catholic name. There was a crest on the announcement. Like Zizi the Greek duke. And that count. The count was funny. Brett had a title, too. Lady Ashley. To hell with Brett. To hell with you, Lady Ashley. I lit the lamp beside the bed, turned off the gas, and opened the wide windows. The bed was far back from the windows, and I sat with the windows open and undressed by the bed. Outside a night train, running on the street-car tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the markets. They were noisy at night when you could not sleep. Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of the big armoire beside the bed. That was a typically French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways to be wounded. I suppose it was funny. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. I had the two bull-fight papers, and I took their wrappers off. One was orange. The other yellow. They would both have the same news, so whichever I read first would spoil the other. _Le Toril_ was the better paper, so I started to read it. I read it all the way through, including the Petite Correspondance and the Cornigrams. I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to sleep. My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. In the
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strangers. On the right was the Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. Brett turned her head away. "Oh, go to the Select." "Caf Select," I told the driver. "Boulevard Montparnasse." We drove straight down, turning around the Lion de Belfort that guards the passing Montrouge trams. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: "Would you mind very much if I asked you to do something?" "Don't be silly." "Kiss me just once more before we get there." When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" She pulled her man's felt hat down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who a been at the dance. "Hello, you chaps," Brett said. "I'm going to have a drink." "Oh, Brett! Brett!" the little Greek portrait-painter, who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called Zizi, pushed up to her. "I got something fine to tell you." "Hello, Zizi," Brett said. "I want you to meet a friend," Zizi said. A fat man came up. "Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley." "How do you do?" said Brett. "Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in Paris?" asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk's tooth on his watch-chain. "Rather," said Brett. "Paris is a fine town all right,"<|quote|>said the count.</|quote|>"But I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in London." "Oh, yes," said Brett. "Enormous." Braddocks called to me from a table. "Barnes," he said, "have a drink. That girl of yours got in a frightful row." "What about?" "Something the patronne's daughter said. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her yellow card and demanded the patronne's daughter's too. I say it was a row." "What finally happened?" "Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink." "No," I said. "I must shove off. Seen Cohn?" "He went home with Frances," Mrs. Braddock put in. "Poor chap, he looks awfully down," Braddocks said. "I dare say he is," said Mrs. Braddocks. "I have to shove off," I said. "Good night." I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne. "Will you take a glass of wine with us, sir?" he asked. "No. Thanks awfully. I have to go." "Really going?" Brett asked. "Yes," I said. "I've got a rotten headache." "I'll see you to-morrow?" "Come in at the office." "Hardly." "Well, where will I see you?" "Anywhere around five o'clock." "Make it the other side of town then." "Good. I'll be at the Crillon at five." "Try and be there," I said. "Don't worry," Brett said. "I've never let you down, have I?" "Heard from Mike?" "Letter to-day." "Good night, sir," said the count. I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on. I wanted to get home. The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's statue standing among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bonapartist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St. Michel. There was a light in the concierge's room and I knocked on the door and she gave me my mail. I wished her good night and went up-stairs. There were two letters and some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light in the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One was a bank statement. It showed a balance of $2432.60. I got out my check-book and deducted four checks drawn since the
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The Sun Also Rises
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"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."
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William Rodney
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the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to
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fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with
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Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in
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practice them nor know how to value them; and one s husband s proficiency in this direction might legitimately increase one s respect for him, since mystification is no bad basis for respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. The reading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in England whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trust you where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I was writing those scenes. I kept asking myself, Now is this the sort of thing Katharine would like? I always think of
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depended upon the variety of measures in which the personages speak, Rodney s plays must have challenged the works of Shakespeare. Katharine s ignorance of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill stupor in the audience, such as overcame her as the lines flowed on, sometimes long and sometimes short, but always delivered with the same lilt of voice, which seemed to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer s brain. Still, she reflected, these sorts of skill are almost exclusively masculine; women neither practice them nor know how to value them; and one s husband s proficiency in this direction might legitimately increase one s respect for him, since mystification is no bad basis for respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. The reading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in England whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trust you where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I was writing those scenes. I kept asking myself, Now is this the sort of thing Katharine would like? I always think of you when I m writing, Katharine, even when it s the sort of thing you wouldn t know about. And I d rather yes, I really believe I d rather you thought well of my writing than any one in the world." This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that Katharine was touched. "You think too much of me altogether, William," she said, forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this way. "No, Katharine, I don t," he replied, replacing his manuscript in the drawer. "It does me good to think of you." So
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if you don t want to read, you needn t." William gave a queer snort of exasperation, and opened his manuscript once more, though he kept his eyes upon her face as he did so. No face could have been graver or more judicial. "One can trust you, certainly, to say unpleasant things," he said, smoothing out the page, clearing his throat, and reading half a stanza to himself. "Ahem! The Princess is lost in the wood, and she hears the sound of a horn. (This would all be very pretty on the stage, but I can t get the effect here.) Anyhow, Sylvano enters, accompanied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian s court. I begin where he soliloquizes." He jerked his head and began to read. Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge of literature, she listened attentively. At least, she listened to the first twenty-five lines attentively, and then she frowned. Her attention was only aroused again when Rodney raised his finger a sign, she knew, that the meter was about to change. His theory was that every mood has its meter. His mastery of meters was very great; and, if the beauty of a drama depended upon the variety of measures in which the personages speak, Rodney s plays must have challenged the works of Shakespeare. Katharine s ignorance of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill stupor in the audience, such as overcame her as the lines flowed on, sometimes long and sometimes short, but always delivered with the same lilt of voice, which seemed to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer s brain. Still, she reflected, these sorts of skill are almost exclusively masculine; women neither practice them nor know how to value them; and one s husband s proficiency in this direction might legitimately increase one s respect for him, since mystification is no bad basis for respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. The reading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in England whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trust you where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I was writing those scenes. I kept asking myself, Now is this the sort of thing Katharine would like? I always think of you when I m writing, Katharine, even when it s the sort of thing you wouldn t know about. And I d rather yes, I really believe I d rather you thought well of my writing than any one in the world." This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that Katharine was touched. "You think too much of me altogether, William," she said, forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this way. "No, Katharine, I don t," he replied, replacing his manuscript in the drawer. "It does me good to think of you." So quiet an answer, followed as it was by no expression of love, but merely by the statement that if she must go he would take her to the Strand, and would, if she could wait a moment, change his dressing-gown for a coat, moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for him that she had yet experienced. While he changed in the next room, she stood by the bookcase, taking down books and opening them, but reading nothing on their pages. She felt certain that she would marry Rodney. How could one avoid it? How could one find fault with it? Here she sighed, and, putting the thought of marriage away, fell into a dream state, in which she became another person, and the whole world seemed changed. Being a frequent visitor to that world, she could find her way there unhesitatingly. If she had tried to analyze her impressions, she would have said that there dwelt the realities of the appearances which figure in our world; so direct, powerful, and unimpeded were her sensations there, compared with those called forth in actual life. There dwelt the things one might have felt, had there been cause; the perfect happiness
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he added. She looked into the fire silently. She could not deny that the surface of her feeling was absolutely unruffled by anything in William s character; on the contrary, she felt certain that she could deal with whatever turned up. He gave her peace, in which she could think of things that were far removed from what they talked about. Even now, when he sat within a yard of her, how easily her mind ranged hither and thither! Suddenly a picture presented itself before her, without any effort on her part as pictures will, of herself in these very rooms; she had come in from a lecture, and she held a pile of books in her hand, scientific books, and books about mathematics and astronomy which she had mastered. She put them down on the table over there. It was a picture plucked from her life two or three years hence, when she was married to William; but here she checked herself abruptly. She could not entirely forget William s presence, because, in spite of his efforts to control himself, his nervousness was apparent. On such occasions his eyes protruded more than ever, and his face had more than ever the appearance of being covered with a thin crackling skin, through which every flush of his volatile blood showed itself instantly. By this time he had shaped so many sentences and rejected them, felt so many impulses and subdued them, that he was a uniform scarlet. "You may say you don t read books," he remarked, "but, all the same, you know about them. Besides, who wants you to be learned? Leave that to the poor devils who ve got nothing better to do. You you ahem!" "Well, then, why don t you read me something before I go?" said Katharine, looking at her watch. "Katharine, you ve only just come! Let me see now, what have I got to show you?" He rose, and stirred about the papers on his table, as if in doubt; he then picked up a manuscript, and after spreading it smoothly upon his knee, he looked up at Katharine suspiciously. He caught her smiling. "I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness," he burst out. "Let s find something else to talk about. Who have you been seeing?" "I don t generally ask things out of kindness," Katharine observed; "however, if you don t want to read, you needn t." William gave a queer snort of exasperation, and opened his manuscript once more, though he kept his eyes upon her face as he did so. No face could have been graver or more judicial. "One can trust you, certainly, to say unpleasant things," he said, smoothing out the page, clearing his throat, and reading half a stanza to himself. "Ahem! The Princess is lost in the wood, and she hears the sound of a horn. (This would all be very pretty on the stage, but I can t get the effect here.) Anyhow, Sylvano enters, accompanied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian s court. I begin where he soliloquizes." He jerked his head and began to read. Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge of literature, she listened attentively. At least, she listened to the first twenty-five lines attentively, and then she frowned. Her attention was only aroused again when Rodney raised his finger a sign, she knew, that the meter was about to change. His theory was that every mood has its meter. His mastery of meters was very great; and, if the beauty of a drama depended upon the variety of measures in which the personages speak, Rodney s plays must have challenged the works of Shakespeare. Katharine s ignorance of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill stupor in the audience, such as overcame her as the lines flowed on, sometimes long and sometimes short, but always delivered with the same lilt of voice, which seemed to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer s brain. Still, she reflected, these sorts of skill are almost exclusively masculine; women neither practice them nor know how to value them; and one s husband s proficiency in this direction might legitimately increase one s respect for him, since mystification is no bad basis for respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. The reading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in England whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trust you where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I was writing those scenes. I kept asking myself, Now is this the sort of thing Katharine would like? I always think of you when I m writing, Katharine, even when it s the sort of thing you wouldn t know about. And I d rather yes, I really believe I d rather you thought well of my writing than any one in the world." This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that Katharine was touched. "You think too much of me altogether, William," she said, forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this way. "No, Katharine, I don t," he replied, replacing his manuscript in the drawer. "It does me good to think of you." So quiet an answer, followed as it was by no expression of love, but merely by the statement that if she must go he would take her to the Strand, and would, if she could wait a moment, change his dressing-gown for a coat, moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for him that she had yet experienced. While he changed in the next room, she stood by the bookcase, taking down books and opening them, but reading nothing on their pages. She felt certain that she would marry Rodney. How could one avoid it? How could one find fault with it? Here she sighed, and, putting the thought of marriage away, fell into a dream state, in which she became another person, and the whole world seemed changed. Being a frequent visitor to that world, she could find her way there unhesitatingly. If she had tried to analyze her impressions, she would have said that there dwelt the realities of the appearances which figure in our world; so direct, powerful, and unimpeded were her sensations there, compared with those called forth in actual life. There dwelt the things one might have felt, had there been cause; the perfect happiness of which here we taste the fragment; the beauty seen here in flying glimpses only. No doubt much of the furniture of this world was drawn directly from the past, and even from the England of the Elizabethan age. However the embellishment of this imaginary world might change, two qualities were constant in it. It was a place where feelings were liberated from the constraint which the real world puts upon them; and the process of awakenment was always marked by resignation and a kind of stoical acceptance of facts. She met no acquaintance there, as Denham did, miraculously transfigured; she played no heroic part. But there certainly she loved some magnanimous hero, and as they swept together among the leaf-hung trees of an unknown world, they shared the feelings which came fresh and fast as the waves on the shore. But the sands of her liberation were running fast; even through the forest branches came sounds of Rodney moving things on his dressing-table; and Katharine woke herself from this excursion by shutting the cover of the book she was holding, and replacing it in the bookshelf. "William," she said, speaking rather faintly at first, like one sending a voice from sleep to reach the living. "William," she repeated firmly, "if you still want me to marry you, I will." Perhaps it was that no man could expect to have the most momentous question of his life settled in a voice so level, so toneless, so devoid of joy or energy. At any rate William made no answer. She waited stoically. A moment later he stepped briskly from his dressing-room, and observed that if she wanted to buy more oysters he thought he knew where they could find a fishmonger s shop still open. She breathed deeply a sigh of relief. Extract from a letter sent a few days later by Mrs. Hilbery to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Milvain: "... How stupid of me to forget the name in my telegram. Such a nice, rich, English name, too, and, in addition, he has all the graces of intellect; he has read literally _everything_. I tell Katharine, I shall always put him on my right side at dinner, so as to have him by me when people begin talking about characters in Shakespeare. They won t be rich, but they ll be very, very happy. I was sitting in my room late
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he looked up at Katharine suspiciously. He caught her smiling. "I believe you only ask me to read out of kindness," he burst out. "Let s find something else to talk about. Who have you been seeing?" "I don t generally ask things out of kindness," Katharine observed; "however, if you don t want to read, you needn t." William gave a queer snort of exasperation, and opened his manuscript once more, though he kept his eyes upon her face as he did so. No face could have been graver or more judicial. "One can trust you, certainly, to say unpleasant things," he said, smoothing out the page, clearing his throat, and reading half a stanza to himself. "Ahem! The Princess is lost in the wood, and she hears the sound of a horn. (This would all be very pretty on the stage, but I can t get the effect here.) Anyhow, Sylvano enters, accompanied by the rest of the gentlemen of Gratian s court. I begin where he soliloquizes." He jerked his head and began to read. Although Katharine had just disclaimed any knowledge of literature, she listened attentively. At least, she listened to the first twenty-five lines attentively, and then she frowned. Her attention was only aroused again when Rodney raised his finger a sign, she knew, that the meter was about to change. His theory was that every mood has its meter. His mastery of meters was very great; and, if the beauty of a drama depended upon the variety of measures in which the personages speak, Rodney s plays must have challenged the works of Shakespeare. Katharine s ignorance of Shakespeare did not prevent her from feeling fairly certain that plays should not produce a sense of chill stupor in the audience, such as overcame her as the lines flowed on, sometimes long and sometimes short, but always delivered with the same lilt of voice, which seemed to nail each line firmly on to the same spot in the hearer s brain. Still, she reflected, these sorts of skill are almost exclusively masculine; women neither practice them nor know how to value them; and one s husband s proficiency in this direction might legitimately increase one s respect for him, since mystification is no bad basis for respect. No one could doubt that William was a scholar. The reading ended with the finish of the Act; Katharine had prepared a little speech. "That seems to me extremely well written, William; although, of course, I don t know enough to criticize in detail." "But it s the skill that strikes you not the emotion?" "In a fragment like that, of course, the skill strikes one most."<|quote|>"But perhaps have you time to listen to one more short piece? the scene between the lovers? There s some real feeling in that, I think. Denham agrees that it s the best thing I ve done."</|quote|>"You ve read it to Ralph Denham?" Katharine inquired, with surprise. "He s a better judge than I am. What did he say?" "My dear Katharine," Rodney exclaimed, "I don t ask you for criticism, as I should ask a scholar. I dare say there are only five men in England whose opinion of my work matters a straw to me. But I trust you where feeling is concerned. I had you in my mind often when I was writing those scenes. I kept asking myself, Now is this the sort of thing Katharine would like? I always think of you when I m writing, Katharine, even when it s the sort of thing you wouldn t know about. And I d rather yes, I really believe I d rather you thought well of my writing than any one in the world." This was so genuine a tribute to his trust in her that Katharine was touched. "You think too much of me altogether, William," she said, forgetting that she had not meant to speak in this way. "No, Katharine, I don t," he replied, replacing his manuscript in the drawer. "It does me good to think of you." So quiet an answer, followed as it was by no expression of love, but merely by the statement that if she must go he would take her to the Strand, and would, if she could wait a moment, change his dressing-gown for a coat, moved her to the warmest feeling of affection for him that she had yet experienced. While he changed in the next room, she stood by the bookcase, taking down books and opening them, but reading nothing on their pages. She felt certain that she would marry Rodney. How could one avoid it? How could one find fault with it? Here she sighed, and, putting the thought of marriage away, fell into a dream state, in which she became another person, and the whole world seemed changed. Being a frequent visitor to that world, she could find her way there unhesitatingly. If she had tried to analyze her impressions, she would have said that there dwelt the realities of the appearances which figure in our world; so direct, powerful, and unimpeded were her sensations there, compared with those called
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Night And Day
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"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"
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Harriet Smith
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coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?"
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"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess,
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heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself.
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not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all
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apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You" (blushing as she spoke) "who can see into
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from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You" (blushing as she spoke) "who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly." "Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill." "I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting
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a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done. CHAPTER XI "Harriet, poor Harriet!" "--Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much _his_ behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith."--She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.--" "But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to do." She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You" (blushing as she spoke) "who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly." "Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill." "I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?" "Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?" turning away distressed. "Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--" "What do you mean?--Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--" She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer. Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's. "I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who had been always acquainted with him--" "Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--" "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?" "To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible." "Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!" "My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations
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given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.--" "But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to do." She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty. In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance. "Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"<|quote|>"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"</|quote|>"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint. "About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it." "What did Mr. Weston tell you?" "--said Emma, still perplexed. "Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!" It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak. "Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You" (blushing as she spoke) "who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--" "Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You
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Emma
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said Mr. Dawkins;
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No speaker
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air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands,
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her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the
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the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually
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chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear,
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the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to
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upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. "Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over." "What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving
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limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late: for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration. The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. "Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel to-night, Bill?" "As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow." Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and struck her. "Whining are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?" "I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?" "Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have." "Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill," said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "No!" cried Mr. Sikes. "Why not?" "Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't." "Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes, "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. "Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over." "What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin, submissively. "I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough
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wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!" "It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. "Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over." "What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. "What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense." At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, called for assistance. "What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,"<|quote|>said Mr. Dawkins;</|quote|>"and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd
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Oliver Twist
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said Jem.
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No speaker
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let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get
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shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned
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listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden,
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and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their
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loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?" Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late,
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the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?" Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?" "Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on." "Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem. "Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate." Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful labour over the rope thrown away! And he cast a despairing look at Jem. "Never mind, my lad," whispered the latter. "More chances than one." "Now then! No whispering. Come along!" shouted the sinister-looking man, fiercely. "Come on down. Bring 'em along." Don
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trap made a creaking noise, and a strange sailor came up, to find Jem seated on the floor tailor-fashion, and Don lying upon his face, with his arms crossed beneath his forehead, and some of the old sacking beneath him. The man came up slowly, and laid the trap back in a careful way, as if to avoid making a noise, and then, after a furtive look at Jem, who gave him a sturdy stare in return, he stood leaning over the opening and listening. Footsteps were heard directly after, and a familiar voice gave some order. Directly after the bluff-looking man with whom they had had so much dealing stepped up into the loft. "Well, my lads," he said, "how are the sore places?" Jem did not answer. "Sulky, eh? Ah, you'll soon get over that. Now, my boy, let's have a look at you." He gave Don a clap on the shoulder, and the lad started up as if from sleep, and stared at the fresh comer. "Won't do," said the bluff man, laughing. "Men don't wake up from sleep like that. Ah! Of course: now you are turning red in the face. Didn't want to speak to me, eh? Well, you are all right, I see." Don did not attempt to rise from where he half sat, half lay, and the man gave a sharp look round, letting his eyes rest; for a few moments upon the window, and then turning them curiously upon the old sacking. To Don's horror he approached and picked up a piece close to that which served for a couch. "How came all this here?" he said sharply. "Old stuff, sir. Been used for the bales o' 'bacco, I s'pose," said the furtive-looking man. "Humph. And so you have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look." The perspiration stood on Don's forehead. "Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!" He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below. "Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door. "Wants Mr Jones," came up. "Luff wants you, sir," said the man. "Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?" Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?" "Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on." "Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem. "Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate." Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful labour over the rope thrown away! And he cast a despairing look at Jem. "Never mind, my lad," whispered the latter. "More chances than one." "Now then! No whispering. Come along!" shouted the sinister-looking man, fiercely. "Come on down. Bring 'em along." Don cast another despairing look at Jem, and then marched slowly toward the opening in the floor. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Just as the prisoners reached the trap-door a voice came from below. "Hold hard there, my lads. Bosun Jones has been down to the others, and he says these here may stop where they are." "What for?" "Oh, one o' the four chaps we brought in last night's half wild, and been running amuck. Come on down." "Yah!" growled the sinister sailor, scowling at Jem, as if there were some old enmity between them. "I say, don't," said Jem mockingly. "You'll spoil your good looks. Say, does he always look as handsome as that?" The man doubled his fist, and made a sharp blow at Jem, and seemed surprised at the result; for Jem dodged, and retorted, planting his fist in the fellow's chest, and sending him staggering back. The man's eyes blazed as he recovered himself, and rushed at Jem like a bull-dog. Obeying his first impulse, Don, who had never struck a blow in anger since he left school, forgot fair play for the moment, and doubled his fists to help Jem. "No, no, Mas' Don; I can tackle him," cried Jem; "and I feel as if I should like to now." But there was to be no encounter, for a couple of the other sailors seized their messmate, and forced him to the trap-door, growling and threatening all manner of evil to the sturdy little prisoner, who was standing on his defence. "No, no, mate," said the biggest and strongest of the party; "it's like hitting a man as is down. Come on." There was another struggle, but the brute was half thrust to the ladder, and directly after the trap was closed again, and the bolt shot. "Well, I never felt so much like fighting before--leastwise not since I thrashed old Mike behind the barrel stack in the yard," said Jem, resuming his coat, which he had thrown off. "Did you fight Mike in the yard one day?" said Don wonderingly. "Why, Jem, I remember; that's when you had such a dreadful black eye." "That's right, my lad." "And pretended you fell down the ladder out of floor number six." "That's right again, Mas' Don," said Jem, grinning. "Then that was a lie?" "Well, I don't know 'bout it's being a lie, my lad. P'r'aps
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o' 'bacco, I s'pose," said the furtive-looking man. "Humph. And so you have made a bed of it, eh? Let's have a look." The perspiration stood on Don's forehead. "Well," said the bluff man, "why don't you get up? Quick!" He took a step nearer Don, and was in the act of stooping to take him by the arm, when there was a hail from below. "Ahoy!" shouted the sailor, bending over the trap-door. "Wants Mr Jones," came up. "Luff wants you, sir," said the man. "Right. There, cheer up, my lads; you might be worse off than you are," said the bluff visitor pleasantly. Then, clapping Don on the shoulder, "Don't sulk, my lad. Make the best of things. You're in the king's service now, so take your fate like a man." He nodded and crossed to the trap. "Ahoy, there! Below there! I'm coming.--Can't expect a bosun to break his neck." He said these last words as his head and shoulders were above the floor, and gave the prisoners a friendly nod just as his eyes were disappearing. "Come along, my lad," he said, when he was out of sight. "Ay! Ay!" growled the furtive-looking man, slowly following, and giving those he left behind a very peculiar smile, which he lengthened out in time and form, till he was right down the ladder, with the trap-door drawn over and resting upon his head. This he slowly lowered, till only his eyes and brow were seen, and he stayed like that watching for a minute, then let the lid close with a _flap_, and shut him, as it were, in a box. "Gone!" said Jem. "Lor', how I should ha' liked to go and jump on that there trap just while he was holding it up with his head. I'd ha' made it ache for him worse than they made mine." "Hist! Don't talk so loud," whispered Don. "He listens." "I hope he's a-listening now," said Jem, loudly; "a lively smiling sort of a man. That's what he is, Mas' Don. Sort o' man always on the blue sneak." Don held up his hand. "Think they suspect anything, Jem?" he whispered. "Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, Mas' Don. That stoutish chap seemed to smell a rat, and that smiling door-knocker fellow was all on the spy; but I don't think he heared anything, and I'm sure he didn't see. Now, then, can you tell me whether they're coming back?" Don shook his head, and they remained thinking and watching for nearly an hour before Jem declared that they must risk it. "One minute," said Don; and he went on tip-toe as far as the trap-door, and lying down, listened and applied his eyes to various cracks, before feeling convinced that no one was listening. "Why, you didn't try if it was fastened," cried Jem; and taking out his knife, he inserted it opposite to the hinges, and tried to lever up the door. It was labour in vain, for the bolt had been shot. "They don't mean to let us go, Mas' Don,"<|quote|>said Jem.</|quote|>"Come on, and let's get the rope done." They returned to the sacking, lifted it up, and taking out the unfinished rope, worked away rapidly, but with the action of sparrows feeding in a road--one peck and two looks out for danger. Half-a-dozen times at least the work was hidden, some sound below suggesting danger, while over and over again, in spite of their efforts, the rope advanced so slowly, and the result was so poor, that Don felt in despair of its being done by the time they wanted it, and doubtful whether if done it would bear their weight. He envied Jem's stolid patience and the brave way in which he worked, twisting, and knotting about every three feet, while every time their eyes met Jem gave him an encouraging nod. Whether to be successful or not, the making of the rope did one thing-- it relieved them of a great deal of mental strain. In fact, Don stared wonderingly at the skylight, as it seemed to him to have suddenly turned dark. "Going to be a storm, Jem," he said. "Will the rain hurt the rope?" "Storm, Mas' Don? Why, it's as clear as clear. Getting late, and us not done." "But the rope must be long enough now." "Think so, sir?" "Yes; and if it is not, we can easily drop the rest of the way." "What! And break our legs, or sprain our ankles, and be caught? No let's make it another yard or two." "Hist! Quick!" They were only just in time, for almost before they had thrown the old sacking over the rope, the bolt of the trap-door was thrust back, and the sinister-looking sailor entered with four more, to give a sharp look round the place, and then roughly seize the prisoners. "Now, then!" cried Jem sharply, "what yer about? Arn't going to tie us up, are you?" "Yes, if you cut up rough again," said the leader of the little party. "Come on." "Here, what yer going to do?" cried Jem. "Do? You'll see. Not going to spoil your beauty, mate." Don's heart sank low. All that hopeful
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Don Lavington
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The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
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No speaker
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'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition,
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chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of
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and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred
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another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour,
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trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said
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to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. "You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men," said Gamfield, wavering. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to
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Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "Wo o!" said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. "You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men," said Gamfield, wavering. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. "Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver." "A prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling. "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed bitterly. "Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into your
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a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "Wo o!" said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another gentleman. "That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."<|quote|>The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:</|quote|>"We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not
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Oliver Twist
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urged Fagin, submissively.
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No speaker
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out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you,
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choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll
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I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and
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more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl!
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take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily
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it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home," retorted Sikes; "and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling,
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matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in. "Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't stand chattering and grinning at me!" With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes. "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts." These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance. "Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin. "No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home," retorted Sikes; "and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and
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all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning." In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence. "Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness, oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!" Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment's hesitation. "Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, Bill; you'll do now." "Do!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?" "Only hear him, boys!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things." "The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes: a little soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog. Drive him down, Charley!" "I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides." "Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?" "I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the Jew. "And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?" "I couldn't help it, Bill. I can't go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour." "Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it'll choke me dead." "Don't be out of temper, my dear,"<|quote|>urged Fagin, submissively.</|quote|>"I have never forgot you, Bill; never once." "No! I'll pound it that you han't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. "You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I might have died." "There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your having such a handy girl about you?" "He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him be; let him be." Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make. "It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you to-night." "I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew. "Then you've got lots at home," retorted Sikes; "and I must have some from there." "Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up is hands. "I haven't so much as would" "I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must have some to-night; and that's flat." "Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round presently." "You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone." After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home; with the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived
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Oliver Twist
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'Upon my word, ma'am--.'
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No speaker
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I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is
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one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr.
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the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which
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Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget
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declares--Well!--" (as soon as she was within the door) "Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance." 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' "said I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--" "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know" (eyeing Emma most complacently) "--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite
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arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--" (as soon as she was within the door) "Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance." 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' "said I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--" "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know" (eyeing Emma most complacently) "--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!" Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of
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begin, or afraid of being always near her. Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes." A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said, "I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward." Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed. "But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring them." The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed. In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--" "I will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father: "Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing. "A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--" (as soon as she was within the door) "Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance." 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' "said I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--" "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know" (eyeing Emma most complacently) "--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!" Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my hair?" "--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well." At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly forward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming, "Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us." "Jane!" "--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.--" "That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose." "How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper. "Not at all." "You are ungrateful." "Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to a smile--" "No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?" Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which interfered
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candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better." While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away. Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_." Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard, "So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--" (as soon as she was within the door) "Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance." 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' "said I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--" "Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,"<|quote|>'Upon my word, ma'am--.'</|quote|>"Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know" (eyeing Emma most complacently) "--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!" Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my hair?" "--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well." At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his
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Emma
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