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"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence." | Mr. Hastings | blame on John," I remarked.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere | they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against | 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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You | 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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which | 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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried. "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it | 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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried. "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia." "But why should he shield her?" "Because he is in love with her." I laughed. "There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her." "Who told you that, _mon ami?_" "Cynthia herself." "_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?" "She said that she did not mind at all." "Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked Poirot. "They are like that _les femmes!_" "What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me," I said. "But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance | rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase." "But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him." "Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried. "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia." "But why should he shield her?" "Because he is in love with her." I laughed. "There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her." "Who told you that, _mon ami?_" "Cynthia herself." "_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?" "She said that she did not mind at all." "Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked Poirot. "They are like that _les femmes!_" "What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me," I said. "But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld the theory of Death from natural causes'." "And what about the extra coffee-cup'?" "I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion. And he was perfectly right." "One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?" "They were, of course, an accusation against her husband." "Dear me, Poirot," I said with a sigh, "I think you have explained everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his wife are reconciled." "Thanks to me." "How do you mean thanks to you?" "My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John Cavendish's arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?" "Yes, I quite understood your distress." "Pardon me, _mon ami_, but you did not understand it in the least. I was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could have cleared him though it might have meant a failure to convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to the very last moment which partly accounts for my success." "Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought to trial?" "Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of a woman's happiness'. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls | 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.<|quote|>"It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence."</|quote|>"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried. "Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia." "But why should he shield her?" "Because he is in love with her." I laughed. "There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that, far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her." "Who told you that, _mon ami?_" "Cynthia herself." "_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?" "She said that she did not mind at all." "Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked Poirot. "They are like that _les femmes!_" "What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me," I said. "But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld the theory of Death from natural causes'." "And what about the extra coffee-cup'?" "I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. | No speaker | hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as | my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released | her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would | contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about | and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, | quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He looked with a divided discretion, the pain of his indecision, from his daughter’s suitor and his approved candidate to that contumacious young woman and back again; then choosing his course in silence he had a gesture of almost desperate indifference and passed quickly out by the door to the terrace. It had left Lord John gaping. “What on earth’s the matter with your father?” “What on earth indeed?” Lady Grace unaidingly asked. “Is he discussing with that awful man?” “Old | the country?” Lord Theign was visibly astonished, but had also, independently of this, turned a shade pale. “You ask of me an ‘assurance’?” Hugh had now, with his firmness and his strained smile, quite the look of having counted the cost of his step. “I’m afraid I _must_, you see.” It pressed at once in his host the spring of a very grand manner. “And pray by what right here do you do anything of the sort?” “By the right of a person from whom you, on your side, are accepting a service.” Hugh had clearly determined in his opponent a rise of what is called spirit. “A service that you half an hour ago thrust on me, sir--and with which you may take it from me that I’m already quite prepared to dispense.” “I’m sorry to appear indiscreet,” our young man returned; “I’m sorry to have upset you in any way. But I can’t overcome my anxiety--” Lord Theign took the words from his lips. “And you therefore invite me--at the end of half an hour in this house!--to account to you for my personal intentions and my private affairs and make over my freedom to your hands?” Hugh stood there with his eyes on the black and white pavement that stretched about him--the great loz-enged marble floor that might have figured that ground of his own vision which he had made up his mind to “stand.” “I can only see the matter as I see it, and I should be ashamed not to have seized any chance to appeal to you.” Whatever difficulty he had had shyly to face didn’t exist for him now. “I entreat you to think again, to think _well_, before you deprive us of such a source of just envy.” “And you regard your entreaty as helped,” Lord Theign asked, “by the beautiful threat you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He looked with a divided discretion, the pain of his indecision, from his daughter’s suitor and his approved candidate to that contumacious young woman and back again; then choosing his course in silence he had a gesture of almost desperate indifference and passed quickly out by the door to the terrace. It had left Lord John gaping. “What on earth’s the matter with your father?” “What on earth indeed?” Lady Grace unaidingly asked. “Is he discussing with that awful man?” “Old Bender? Do you think him so awful?” Lord John showed surprise--which might indeed have passed for harmless amusement; but he shook everything off in view of a nearer interest. He quite waved old Bender away. “My dear girl, what do _we_ care--?” “I care immensely, I assure you,” she interrupted, “and I ask of you, please, to tell me!” Her perversity, coming straight and which he had so little expected, threw him back so that he looked at her with sombre eyes. “Ah, it’s not for such a matter I’m here, Lady Grace--I’m here with that fond question of my own.” And then as she turned away, leaving him with a vehement motion of protest: “I’ve come for your kind answer--the answer your father instructed me to count on.” “I’ve no kind answer to give you!” --she raised forbidding hands. “I entreat you to leave me alone.” There was so high a spirit and so strong a force in it that he stared as if stricken by violence. “In God’s name then what has happened--when you almost gave me your word?” “What has happened is that I’ve found it impossible to listen to you.” And she moved as if fleeing she scarce knew whither before him. He had already hastened around another way, however, as to meet her in her quick circuit of the hall. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me after what has passed between us?” He had stopped her thus, but she had also stopped him, and her passionate denial set him a limit. “I’ve got to say--sorry as I am--that if you _must_ have an answer it’s this: that never, Lord John, never, can there be anything more between us.” And her gesture cleared her path, permitting her to achieve her flight. “Never, no, never,” she repeated as she went-- “never, never, never!” She got off by the door at which she had been aiming to some retreat of her own, while aghast and defeated, left to make the best of it, he sank after a moment into a chair and remained quite pitiably staring before him, appealing to the great blank splendour. BOOK SECOND I LADY SANDGATE, on a morning late in May, entered her drawing-room by the door that opened at the right of that charming retreat as a person coming in faced Bruton Street; and she met there at this moment Mr. | you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned-- “since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.” The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.”<|quote|>Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong.</|quote|>“Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He looked with a divided discretion, the pain of his indecision, from his daughter’s suitor and his approved candidate to that contumacious young woman and back again; then choosing his course in | The Outcry |
"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!" | Anne Shirley | be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. | oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry | its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, | the strong, fresh air. "Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best | home as pleasant as the drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. "Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home." CHAPTER XXX. The Queens Class Is Organized |MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove. Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing | wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Barry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips. "I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself, "but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and happier woman." Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. "Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home." CHAPTER XXX. The Queens Class Is Organized |MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove. Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life. Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort | wore white satin and diamonds. But when she began to sing I never thought about anything else. Oh, I can't tell you how I felt. But it seemed to me that it could never be hard to be good any more. I felt like I do when I look up to the stars. Tears came into my eyes, but, oh, they were such happy tears. I was so sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss Barry I didn't see how I was ever to return to common life again. She said she thought if we went over to the restaurant across the street and had an ice cream it might help me. That sounded so prosaic; but to my surprise I found it true. The ice cream was delicious, Marilla, and it was so lovely and dissipated to be sitting there eating it at eleven o'clock at night. Diana said she believed she was born for city life. Miss Barry asked me what my opinion was, but I said I would have to think it over very seriously before I could tell her what I really thought. So I thought it over after I went to bed. That is the best time to think things out. And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn't born for city life and that I was glad of it. It's nice to be eating ice cream at brilliant restaurants at eleven o'clock at night once in a while; but as a regular thing I'd rather be in the east gable at eleven, sound asleep, but kind of knowing even in my sleep that the stars were shining outside and that the wind was blowing in the firs across the brook. I told Miss Barry so at breakfast the next morning and she laughed. Miss Barry generally laughed at anything I said, even when I said the most solemn things. I don't think I liked it, Marilla, because I wasn't trying to be funny. But she is a most hospitable lady and treated us royally." Friday brought going-home time, and Mr. Barry drove in for the girls. "Well, I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said Miss Barry, as she bade them good-bye. "Indeed we have," said Diana. "And you, Anne-girl?" "I've enjoyed every minute of the time," said Anne, throwing her arms impulsively about the old woman's neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek. Diana would never have dared to do such a thing and felt rather aghast at Anne's freedom. But Miss Barry was pleased, and she stood on her veranda and watched the buggy out of sight. Then she went back into her big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young lives. Miss Barry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady's good graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips. "I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself, "but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and happier woman." Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. "Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home." CHAPTER XXX. The Queens Class Is Organized |MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove. Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life. Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her. She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy and understanding. But she always checked the thought reproachfully, remembering what she owed to Marilla. "Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss Stacy was here this afternoon when you were out with Diana." Anne came back from her other world with a start and a sigh. "Was she? Oh, I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why didn't you call me, Marilla? Diana and I were only over in the Haunted Wood. It's lovely in the woods now. All the little wood things--the ferns and the satin leaves and the crackerberries--have gone to sleep, just as if somebody had tucked them away until spring under a blanket of leaves. I think it was a little gray fairy with a rainbow scarf that came tiptoeing along the last moonlight night and did it. Diana wouldn't say much about that, though. Diana has never forgotten the scolding her mother gave her about imagining ghosts into the Haunted Wood. It had a very bad effect on Diana's imagination. It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde says Myrtle Bell is a blighted being. I asked Ruby Gillis why Myrtle was blighted, and Ruby said she guessed it was because her young man had gone back on her. Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but young men, and the older she gets the worse she is. Young men are all very well in their place, but it doesn't do to drag them into everything, does it? Diana and I are thinking seriously of promising each other that we will never marry but be nice old maids and live together forever. Diana hasn't quite made up her mind though, because she thinks perhaps it would be nobler to marry some wild, dashing, wicked young man and reform him. Diana and I talk a great deal about serious subjects now, you know. We feel that we are so much older than we used to be that it isn't becoming to talk of childish matters. It's such a solemn thing to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us girls who are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and talked to us about | lady's good graces. But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne's quaint speeches than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips. "I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she'd adopted a girl out of an orphan asylum," she said to herself, "but I guess she didn't make much of a mistake after all. If I'd a child like Anne in the house all the time I'd be a better and happier woman." Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive in--pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air. "Oh, but it's good to be alive and to be going home," breathed Anne. When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table. "So you've got back?" said Marilla, folding up her knitting. "Yes, and oh, it's so good to be back," said Anne joyously.<|quote|>"I could kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You don't mean to say you cooked that for me!"</|quote|>"Yes, I did," said Marilla. "I thought you'd be hungry after such a drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your things, and we'll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I'm glad you've got back, I must say. It's been fearful lonesome here without you, and I never put in four longer days." After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and gave them a full account of her visit. "I've had a splendid time," she concluded happily, "and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home." CHAPTER XXX. The Queens Class Is Organized |MARILLA laid her knitting on her lap and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were tired, and she thought vaguely that she must see about having her glasses changed the next time she went to town, for her eyes had grown tired very often of late. It was nearly dark, for the full November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove. Anne was curled up Turk-fashion on the hearthrug, gazing into that joyous glow where the sunshine of a hundred summers was being distilled from the maple cordwood. She had been reading, but her book had slipped to the floor, and now she was dreaming, with a smile on her parted lips. Glittering castles in Spain were shaping themselves out of the mists and rainbows of her lively fancy; adventures wonderful and enthralling were happening to her in cloudland--adventures that always turned out triumphantly and never involved her in scrapes like those of actual life. Marilla looked at her with a tenderness that would never have been suffered to reveal itself in any clearer light than that soft mingling of fireshine and shadow. The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her. Certainly Anne herself had no idea how Marilla loved her. She sometimes thought wistfully that Marilla was very hard to please and distinctly lacking in sympathy and understanding. But she always checked the thought reproachfully, remembering what she owed to Marilla. "Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss Stacy was here this afternoon when you were out with Diana." Anne came back from her other world with a start and a sigh. "Was she? Oh, I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why didn't you call me, Marilla? Diana and I were | Anne Of Green Gables |
"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." | The Invisible Man | was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn | at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. | felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I | builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, | like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations | of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned around abruptly. "I robbed the old man robbed my father." "The money was not his, and he shot himself." CHAPTER XX. AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling | ideas he was always prying! And you know the knavish system of the scientific world. I simply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on working; I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment, a reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon the world with crushing effect and become famous at a blow. I took up the question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by design but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology." "Yes?" "You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made white colourless and remain with all the functions it has now!" Kemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement. The Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study. "You may well exclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night in the daytime one was bothered with the gaping, silly students and I worked then sometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete in my mind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been alone." One could make an animal a tissue transparent! One could make it invisible! All except the pigments I could be invisible! "I said, suddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge. It was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and stared out of the great window at the stars." I could be invisible! "I repeated." "To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a provincial professor, always prying." When are you going to publish this work of yours? "was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it" "And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned around abruptly. "I robbed the old man robbed my father." "The money was not his, and he shot himself." CHAPTER XX. AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash." "And you processed her?" "I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible | I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its summit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a provincial professor, always prying." When are you going to publish this work of yours? "was his everlasting question. And the students, the cramped means! Three years I had of it" "And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned around abruptly. "I robbed the old man robbed my father." "The money was not his, and he shot himself." CHAPTER XX. AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair."<|quote|>"But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met."</|quote|>"Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." | The Invisible Man |
“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.” | Lord John | imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, | the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he | makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He | my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you | understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it | little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it isn’t all _you_ do! At any rate,” said Lord John, “I may see you again here?” She waited a moment. “You must have patience with me.” “I _am_ having it But _after_ your father’s appeal.” “Well,” she said, “that must come first.” “Then you won’t dodge it?” She looked at him straight “I don’t dodge, Lord John.” He admired the manner of it “You look awfully handsome as you say so--and you see what _that_ does to me.” As to attentuate a little the freedom of which he went on: “May I fondly hope that if Lady Imber too should wish to put in another word for me----?” “Will I listen to her?” --it brought Lady Grace straight down. “No, Lord John, let me tell you at once that I’ll do nothing of the sort Kitty’s quite another affair, and I never listen to her a bit more than I can help.” Lord John appeared to feel, on this, that he mustn’t too easily, in honour, abandon a person who had presented herself to him as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our | pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden. “They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,” he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it isn’t all _you_ do! At any rate,” said Lord John, “I may see you again here?” She waited a moment. “You must have patience with me.” “I _am_ having it But _after_ your father’s appeal.” “Well,” she said, “that must come first.” “Then you won’t dodge it?” She looked at him straight “I don’t dodge, Lord John.” He admired the manner of it “You look awfully handsome as you say so--and you see what _that_ does to me.” As to attentuate a little the freedom of which he went on: “May I fondly hope that if Lady Imber too should wish to put in another word for me----?” “Will I listen to her?” --it brought Lady Grace straight down. “No, Lord John, let me tell you at once that I’ll do nothing of the sort Kitty’s quite another affair, and I never listen to her a bit more than I can help.” Lord John appeared to feel, on this, that he mustn’t too easily, in honour, abandon a person who had presented herself to him as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our young woman’s eyes, as they rested on him after this remark, had no mercy for its extreme feebleness. “If you mean that she’s the most reckless rattle one knows, and that she never looks so beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes out her interest, she has learnt to ‘get round’ him till he only sees through her eyes--if you mean _that_ I understand you perfectly. But even if you think me horrid for reflecting so on my nearest and dearest, it’s not on the side on which he has most confidence in his elder daughter that his youngest is moved to have most confidence in _him_.” Lord John stared as if she had shaken some odd bright fluttering object in his face; but then recovering himself: “He hasn’t perhaps an absolutely boundless confidence--” “In any one in the world but himself?” --she had taken him straight up. “He hasn’t indeed, and that’s what we must come to; so that even if he likes you as much as you doubtless very justly feel, it won’t be because you are right about your being nice, but because _he_ is!” “You mean that if I were wrong about it he would still insist that he isn’t?” Lady Grace was indeed sure. “Absolutely--if he had begun so! He began so with Kitty--that is with allowing her everything.” Lord John appeared struck. “Yes--and he still allows her two thousand.” “I’m glad to hear it--she has never told me how much!” the girl undisguisedly smiled. “Then perhaps I oughtn’t!” --he glowed with the light of contrition. “Well, you can’t help it now,” his companion remarked with amusement. “You mean that he ought to allow _you_ as much?” Lord John inquired. “I’m sure you’re right, and that he will,” he continued quite as in good faith; “but I want you to understand that I don’t care in the least what it may be!” The subject of his suit took the longest look at him she had taken yet. “You’re very good to say so!” If this was ironic the touch fell short, thanks to his perception that they had practically just ceased to be alone. They were in presence of a third figure, who had arrived from the terrace, but whose approach to them was not so immediate as to deprive Lord John of time for another question. | know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said,<|quote|>“what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.”</|quote|>She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When he does that--as I believe him ready to do--will you really and fairly listen to him? I’m certain, honestly, that when you know me better--!” His confidence in short donned a bravery. “I’ve been feeling this quarter of an hour,” the girl returned, “that I do know you better.” “Then isn’t that all I want?--unless indeed I ought perhaps to ask rather if it isn’t all _you_ do! At any rate,” said Lord John, “I may see you again here?” She waited a moment. “You must have patience with me.” “I _am_ having it But _after_ your father’s appeal.” “Well,” she said, “that must come first.” “Then you won’t dodge it?” She looked at him straight “I don’t dodge, Lord John.” He admired the manner of it “You look awfully handsome as you say so--and you see what _that_ does to me.” As to attentuate a little the freedom of which he went on: “May I fondly hope that if Lady Imber too should wish to put in another word for me----?” “Will I listen to her?” --it brought Lady Grace straight down. “No, Lord John, let me tell you at once that I’ll do nothing of the sort Kitty’s quite another affair, and I never listen to her a bit more than I can help.” Lord John appeared to feel, on this, that he mustn’t too easily, in honour, abandon a person who had presented herself to him as an ally. “Ah, you strike me as a little hard on her. Your father himself--in his looser moments!--takes pleasure in what she says.” Our young woman’s eyes, as they rested on him after this remark, had no mercy for its extreme feebleness. “If you mean that she’s the most reckless rattle one knows, and that she never looks so beautiful as when she’s at her worst, and that, always clever for where she makes | The Outcry |
"what do you mean?" | Thomas Gradgrind | Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call | am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he | touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the | though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call | while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of returning animation when they entered, and presently the faint transparency was presented in a sitting attitude. "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, who had waited for the achievement of this feat with some impatience, "allow me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby." "Oh!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, "so you have settled it! Well, I'm sure I hope your health may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon as you are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him!" Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for the time being, after delivering the following codicil to her remarks already executed: "As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends to the soles of my feet, that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of." When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, | never had a child's heart. You have trained me so well, that I never dreamed a child's dream. You have dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had a child's belief or a child's fear." Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his success, and by this testimony to it. "My dear Louisa," said he, "you abundantly repay my care. Kiss me, my dear girl." So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining her in his embrace, he said, "I may assure you now, my favourite child, that I am made happy by the sound decision at which you have arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very remarkable man; and what little disparity can be said to exist between you if any is more than counterbalanced by the tone your mind has acquired. It has always been my object so to educate you, as that you might, while still in your early youth, be (if I may so express myself) almost any age. Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother." Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room, where the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her, was recumbent as usual, while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of returning animation when they entered, and presently the faint transparency was presented in a sitting attitude. "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, who had waited for the achievement of this feat with some impatience, "allow me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby." "Oh!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, "so you have settled it! Well, I'm sure I hope your health may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon as you are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him!" Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for the time being, after delivering the following codicil to her remarks already executed: "As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends to the soles of my feet, that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of." When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, without looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud and cold held Sissy at a distance changed to her altogether. CHAPTER XVI HUSBAND AND WIFE MR. BOUNDERBY'S first disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do that, or what the consequences of the step might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from the premises; whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she would break her heart, or break the looking-glass; Mr. Bounderby could not all foresee. However, as it must be done, he had no choice but to do it; so, after attempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resolved to do it by word of mouth. On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this momentous purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into a chemist's shop and buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling-salts. "By George!" said | 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 nourished? What escape have I had from problems that could be demonstrated, and realities that could be grasped?" As she said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, as if upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as though she were releasing dust or ash. "My dear," assented her eminently practical parent, "quite true, quite true." "Why, father," she pursued, "what a strange question to ask _me_! The baby-preference that even I have heard of as common among children, has never had its innocent resting-place in my breast. You have been so careful of me, that I never had a child's heart. You have trained me so well, that I never dreamed a child's dream. You have dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had a child's belief or a child's fear." Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his success, and by this testimony to it. "My dear Louisa," said he, "you abundantly repay my care. Kiss me, my dear girl." So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining her in his embrace, he said, "I may assure you now, my favourite child, that I am made happy by the sound decision at which you have arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very remarkable man; and what little disparity can be said to exist between you if any is more than counterbalanced by the tone your mind has acquired. It has always been my object so to educate you, as that you might, while still in your early youth, be (if I may so express myself) almost any age. Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother." Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room, where the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her, was recumbent as usual, while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of returning animation when they entered, and presently the faint transparency was presented in a sitting attitude. "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, who had waited for the achievement of this feat with some impatience, "allow me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby." "Oh!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, "so you have settled it! Well, I'm sure I hope your health may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon as you are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him!" Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for the time being, after delivering the following codicil to her remarks already executed: "As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends to the soles of my feet, that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of." When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, without looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud and cold held Sissy at a distance changed to her altogether. CHAPTER XVI HUSBAND AND WIFE MR. BOUNDERBY'S first disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do that, or what the consequences of the step might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from the premises; whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she would break her heart, or break the looking-glass; Mr. Bounderby could not all foresee. However, as it must be done, he had no choice but to do it; so, after attempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resolved to do it by word of mouth. On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this momentous purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into a chemist's shop and buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling-salts. "By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, "if she takes it in the fainting way, I'll have the skin off her nose, at all events!" But, in spite of being thus forearmed, he entered his own house with anything but a courageous air; and appeared before the object of his misgivings, like a dog who was conscious of coming direct from the pantry. "Good evening, Mr. Bounderby!" "Good evening, ma'am, good evening." He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew back hers, as who should say, "Your fireside, sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, if you think proper." "Don't go to the North Pole, ma'am!" said Mr. Bounderby. "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, and returned, though short of her former position. Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points of a stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes for some inscrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An operation which, taken in connexion with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested with some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his head. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, "I have no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible woman." "Sir," returned the lady, "this is indeed not the first time that you have honoured me with similar expressions of your good opinion." "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "I am going to astonish you." "Yes, sir?" returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil manner possible. She generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those mittens. "I am going, ma'am," said Bounderby, "to marry Tom Gradgrind's daughter." "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!" And she said it with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, | can be said to exist between you if any is more than counterbalanced by the tone your mind has acquired. It has always been my object so to educate you, as that you might, while still in your early youth, be (if I may so express myself) almost any age. Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother." Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room, where the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her, was recumbent as usual, while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of returning animation when they entered, and presently the faint transparency was presented in a sitting attitude. "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, who had waited for the achievement of this feat with some impatience, "allow me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby." "Oh!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, "so you have settled it! Well, I'm sure I hope your health may be good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon as you are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give you joy, my dear and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my right shoulder, for there's something running down it all day long. And now you see," whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, "I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!" "Mrs. Gradgrind," said her husband, solemnly,<|quote|>"what do you mean?"</|quote|>"Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It's impossible," said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness and injury, "to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call him!" Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for the time being, after delivering the following codicil to her remarks already executed: "As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends to the soles of my feet, that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of." When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, without looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud and cold held Sissy at a distance changed to her altogether. CHAPTER XVI HUSBAND AND WIFE MR. BOUNDERBY'S first disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do that, or what the consequences of the step might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from the premises; whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she would break her heart, or break the looking-glass; | Hard Times |
replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs. | No speaker | Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting | you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good | nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. | got, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentlman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the | the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. "Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?" "Hard," replied the Dodger. "As nails," added Charley Bates. "Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have you got, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentlman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation. "He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour. The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of | see any of these pretty things, my dear?" said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning rather pale. "They they're mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's all." Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," replied the old gentleman. "Stay. There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear." Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone. He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. "Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?" "Hard," replied the Dodger. "As nails," added Charley Bates. "Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have you got, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentlman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation. "He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour. The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious. When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the | the Jew took out another: so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair, muttered: "What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it's a fine thing for the trade! Five of 'em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn white-livered!" As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes were fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for an instant for the briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed. He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air. "What's that?" said the Jew. "What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick quick! for your life." "I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir," replied Oliver, meekly. "I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir." "You were not awake an hour ago?" said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy. "No! No, indeed!" replied Oliver. "Are you sure?" cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a threatening attitude. "Upon my word I was not, sir," replied Oliver, earnestly. "I was not, indeed, sir." "Tush, tush, my dear!" said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. "Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha! ha! you're a brave boy, Oliver." The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding. "Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?" said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning rather pale. "They they're mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's all." Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," replied the old gentleman. "Stay. There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear." Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone. He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. "Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?" "Hard," replied the Dodger. "As nails," added Charley Bates. "Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have you got, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentlman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation. "He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour. The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious. When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over again. When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed. As there is no doubt they were. The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend. "There, my dear," said Fagin. "That's a pleasant life, isn't it? They have gone out for the day." "Have they done work, sir?" inquired Oliver. "Yes," said the Jew; "that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they won't neglect it, if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make 'em your models, my dear. Make 'em your models," tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; "do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters especially the Dodger's, my dear. He'll be a great man himself, and will make you one too, if | for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone. He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. "Well," said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, "I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?" "Hard," replied the Dodger. "As nails," added Charley Bates. "Good boys, good boys!" said the Jew. "What have you got, Dodger?" "A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentlman. "Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness. "Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. "Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain't he, Oliver?" "Very indeed, sir," said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed. "And what have you got, my dear?" said Fagin to Charley Bates. "Wipes,"<|quote|>replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four pocket-handkerchiefs.</|quote|>"Well," said the Jew, inspecting them closely; "they're very good ones, very. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" "If you please, sir," said Oliver. "You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley Bates, wouldn't you, my dear?" said the Jew. "Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir," replied Oliver. Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation. "He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour. The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes, and said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very industrious. When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in | Oliver Twist |
"I do not at all know. I never heard." | Fanny Price | grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, | Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, | Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, | had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing | something between compliments and and love to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it." "I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt | and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could "And how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?" "I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly expected it." "Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do." "He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before." "He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language a something between compliments and and love to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it." "I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed." Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region." Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again. "The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty to do | angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart. Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend. If she had felt impatience and regret before if she had been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him she now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to her jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name. The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could "And how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?" "I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly expected it." "Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do." "He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before." "He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language a something between compliments and and love to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it." "I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed." Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region." Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again. "The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?" "No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all." "Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly I always imagine you are perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at all or not at present." "No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it. Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject. CHAPTER XXX Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can you have been all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny. "Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary. But this was only the beginning of her surprise. "Yes, Mary," said he, | go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language a something between compliments and and love to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which." "Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?"<|quote|>"I do not at all know. I never heard."</|quote|>"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it." "I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed." Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or | Mansfield Park |
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, | No speaker | am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"Are you acquainted with Mr | Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a | 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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, | hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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 | hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?" "Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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 | Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?" "Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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 | She felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation. Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?" "Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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, "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 | quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?" "Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you 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!"<|quote|>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,</|quote|>"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 | Persuasion |
"Shall we go on again, Kat?" | Paul | for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I | to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands | He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. | fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. | hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him. "Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----" The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any | there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks--grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him. "Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----" The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years--it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. "In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you." I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a | from the other fellow, the fire squirts about on all sides and the man burns. Bertinck has a chest wound. After a while a fragment smashes away his chin, and the same fragment has sufficient force to tear open Leer's hip. Leer groans as he supports himself on his arm, he bleeds quickly, no one can help him. Like an emptying tube, after a couple of minutes he collapses. What use is it to him now that he was such a good mathematician at school. * * The months pass by. The summer of 1918 is the most bloody and the most terrible. The days stand like angels in gold and blue, incomprehensible, above the ring of annihilation. Every man here knows that we are losing the war. Not much is said about it, we are falling back, we will not be able to attack again after this big offensive, we have no more men and no more ammunition. Still the campaign goes on--the dying goes on---- Summer of 1918--Never has life in its niggardliness seemed to us so desirable as now;--the red poppies in the meadows round our billets, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the black, mysterious trees of the twilight, the stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long sleep----. O Life, life, life! Summer of 1918--Never was so much silently suffered as in the moment when we depart once again for the front-line. Wild, tormenting rumours of an armistice and peace are in the air, they lay hold on our hearts and make the return to the front harder than ever. Summer of 1918--Never was life in the line more bitter and more full of horror than in the hours of the bombardment, when the blanched faces lie in the dirt, and the hands clutch at the one thought: No! No! Not now! Not now at the last moment! Summer of 1918--Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, insensate question: Why? Why do they not make an end? And why do these rumours of an end fly about? * * There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every one German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks--grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him. "Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----" The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years--it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. "In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you." I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. My throat is parched; everything dances red and black before my eyes, I stagger on doggedly and pitilessly and at last reach the dressing station. There I drop down on my knees, but have still enough strength to fall on to the side where Kat's sound leg is. After a few minutes I straighten myself up again. My legs and my hands tremble. I have trouble in finding my water bottle, to take a pull. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile--Kat is saved. After a while I begin to sort out the confusion of voices that falls on my ears. "You might have spared yourself that," says an orderly. I look at him without comprehending. He points to Kat. "He is stone dead." I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say. The orderly stands still. "That as well." I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly. The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that." I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted." Kat's hands are warm, I pass my arm under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see----" The orderly whistles once more through his teeth. On the way without my having noticed it, Kat has caught a splinter in the head. There is just one little hole, it must have been a very tiny, stray splinter. But it has sufficed. Kat is dead. Slowly I get up. "Would you like to take his pay book and his things?" the lance-corporal asks me. I nod, and he gives them to me. The orderly is mystified. "You are not related, are you?" No, we are not related. No, we are not related. Do I walk? Have I feet still? I raise my eyes, I let them move round, and turn myself with them, one circle, one circle, and I stand in the midst. All is | into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him. "Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----" The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous.<|quote|>"Shall we go on again, Kat?"</|quote|>"Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----" | Paul | the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed | groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left | jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station | forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, | our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous. "Shall we go on again, Kat?" "Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all | the line more bitter and more full of horror than in the hours of the bombardment, when the blanched faces lie in the dirt, and the hands clutch at the one thought: No! No! Not now! Not now at the last moment! Summer of 1918--Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, insensate question: Why? Why do they not make an end? And why do these rumours of an end fly about? * * There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every one German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks--grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous. "Shall we go on again, Kat?" "Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as | fire on them. But they work nearer and things begin to look bad. Bertinck is lying in the hole with us. When he sees that we cannot escape because under the sharp fire we must make the most of this cover, he takes a rifle, crawls out of the hole, and lying down propped on his elbows, he takes aim. He fires--the same moment a bullet smacks into him, they have got him. Still he lies and aims again;--once he shifts and again takes his aim; at last the rifle cracks. Bertinck lets the gun drop and says: "Good," and slips back into the hole. The hindermost of the two flame-throwers is hit, he falls, the hose slips away from the other fellow, the fire squirts about on all sides and the man burns. Bertinck has a chest wound. After a while a fragment smashes away his chin, and the same fragment has sufficient force to tear open Leer's hip. Leer groans as he supports himself on his arm, he bleeds quickly, no one can help him. Like an emptying tube, after a couple of minutes he collapses. What use is it to him now that he was such a good mathematician at school. * * The months pass by. The summer of 1918 is the most bloody and the most terrible. The days stand like angels in gold and blue, incomprehensible, above the ring of annihilation. Every man here knows that we are losing the war. Not much is said about it, we are falling back, we will not be able to attack again after this big offensive, we have no more men and no more ammunition. Still the campaign goes on--the dying goes on---- Summer of 1918--Never has life in its niggardliness seemed to us so desirable as now;--the red poppies in the meadows round our billets, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the black, mysterious trees of the twilight, the stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long sleep----. O Life, life, life! Summer of 1918--Never was so much silently suffered as in the moment when we depart once again for the front-line. Wild, tormenting rumours of an armistice and peace are in the air, they lay hold on our hearts and make the return to the front harder than ever. Summer of 1918--Never was life in the line more bitter and more full of horror than in the hours of the bombardment, when the blanched faces lie in the dirt, and the hands clutch at the one thought: No! No! Not now! Not now at the last moment! Summer of 1918--Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, insensate question: Why? Why do they not make an end? And why do these rumours of an end fly about? * * There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every one German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks--grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous. "Shall we go on again, Kat?" "Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years--it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. "In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you." I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. My throat is parched; everything dances red and black before my eyes, I stagger on doggedly and pitilessly and at last reach the dressing station. There I drop down on my knees, but have still enough strength to fall on to the side where Kat's sound leg is. After a few minutes I straighten myself up again. My legs and my hands tremble. I have trouble in finding my water bottle, to take a pull. My lips tremble as I try to drink. But I smile--Kat is saved. After a while I begin to sort out the confusion of voices that falls on my ears. "You might have spared yourself that," says an orderly. I look at him without comprehending. He points to Kat. "He is stone dead." I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say. The orderly stands still. "That as well." I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly. The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that." I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted." Kat's hands are warm, I pass my arm under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see----" The orderly whistles once more through his teeth. On the way without my having noticed | do these rumours of an end fly about? * * There are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every one German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks--grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;--and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we still live. Then the heat sinks heavily into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound; his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: "At last--just at the last----" I comfort him.<|quote|>"Who knows how long the mess will go on yet! Now you are saved----"</|quote|>The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat cannot be left by himself while I try to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher-bearer's post in the neighbourhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily, I sweat and my face is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on, for the place is dangerous. "Shall we go on again, Kat?" "Must, Paul." "Then come." I raise him up, he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. We cannot shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigarette. "Well, Kat," I say gloomily, "We are going to be separated at last." He is silent and looks at me. "Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago." He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. "Kat, in any case we must see one another again, if it is peace time before you come back." "Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?" he asks bitterly. "With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit." "Give me another cigarette," he says. "Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat." I am very miserable, it is impossible that Kat--Kat my friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin moustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared these years--it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. "In any case give me your address at home, Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you." I write his address in my pocket book. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him. Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. "Let us go on," he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. My throat is parched; everything dances red | All Quiet on the Western Front |
she laughed, | No speaker | of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly | want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your | be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving | fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the | and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” | inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me | undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks, by the way, a Mantovano pure and simple!--and did me the honour to remember me. When he heard me report to Mackintosh in his presence the sentiments expressed to me here by our noble friend and of which, embarrassed though I doubtless was,” the young man pursued to Lady Sandgate, “I gave as clear an account as I could, he was so delighted with it that he declared they mustn’t think then of taking the thing off, but must on the contrary keep putting it forward for all it’s worth, and he would come round and congratulate and thank Theign and explain him his reasons.” Their hostess cast about for a sign. “Why Theign is at Kitty’s, worse luck! The Prince calls on him _here?_” “He calls, you see, on _you_, my lady--at five-forty-five; and graciously desired me so to put it you.” “He’s very kind, but” --she took in her condition-- “I’m not even _dressed!_” “You’ll have time” --the young man was a comfort-- “while I rush to Berkeley Square. And pardon me, Bender--though it’s so near--if I just bag your car.” “That’s, that’s it, take his car!” --Lady Sandgate almost swept him away. “You may use my car all right,” Mr. Bender contributed-- “but what I want to know is what the man’s _after_.” “The man? what man?” his friend scarce paused to ask. “The Prince then--if you allow he _is_ a man! Is he after my picture?” Lord John vividly disclaimed authority. “If you’ll wait, my dear fellow, you’ll see.” “Oh why should he ‘wait’?” burst from their cautious companion--only to be caught up, however, in the next breath, so swift her gracious revolution. “Wait, wait indeed, Mr. Bender--I won’t give you up for any Prince!” With which she appealed again to Lord John. “He wants to ‘congratulate’?” “On Theign’s decision, as I’ve told you--which I announced to Mackintosh, by Theign’s extraordinary order, under his Highness’s nose, and which his Highness, by the same token, took up like a shot.” Her face, as she bethought herself, was convulsed as by some quick perception of what her informant must have done and what therefore the Prince’s interest rested on; all, however, to the effect, given their actual company, of her at once dodging and covering that issue. “The decision to remove the picture?” Lord John also observed a discretion. “He wouldn’t hear of such a thing--says it must stay stock still. So there you are!” This determined in Mr. Bender a not unnatural, in fact quite a | shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,” opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play. “Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,”<|quote|>she laughed,</|quote|>“I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” | The Outcry |
"Then good night, bless you." | Brenda | you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two | the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and | on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious | was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice. "Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?" "No, it's on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious when I rang him up." "What does he think of you?" "Simply can't make me out at all... terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits." "Are you going to go on with it?" "I shouldn't know." The telephone rang. "Perhaps that's him." But it was not. Brenda had come into | find anything." "No, of course not." "Well, good night, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening." "No, of course not," said Beaver. "Will you ring me in the morning... promise?" She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole. Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed. Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice. "Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?" "No, it's on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious when I rang him up." "What does he think of you?" "Simply can't make me out at all... terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits." "Are you going to go on with it?" "I shouldn't know." The telephone rang. "Perhaps that's him." But it was not. Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. "But, really, Brenda, he's such a _dreary_ young man." "I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all... besides I'm not sure he's _altogether_ awful... he's got that odious mother whom he adores... and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but | her that, from Beaver's point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. "Are you dying of it?" she whispered. "No, indeed, never happier." "Well, I am. Let's go and dance." But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. "Oh dear," said Brenda, "now we're done. We can't go back to the table... it almost looks as though we should have to go home." "It's not two." "That's late for me. Look here, don't you come. Stay and enjoy yourself." "Of course I'll come," said Beaver. It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm round her in the taxi. They did not say much. "There already?" They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out. "I am afraid I can't ask you in for a drink. You see it isn't my house and I shouldn't know where to find anything." "No, of course not." "Well, good night, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening." "No, of course not," said Beaver. "Will you ring me in the morning... promise?" She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole. Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed. Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice. "Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?" "No, it's on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious when I rang him up." "What does he think of you?" "Simply can't make me out at all... terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits." "Are you going to go on with it?" "I shouldn't know." The telephone rang. "Perhaps that's him." But it was not. Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. "But, really, Brenda, he's such a _dreary_ young man." "I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all... besides I'm not sure he's _altogether_ awful... he's got that odious mother whom he adores... and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn't get married because of money and since then he's never had a proper affair with anyone decent... he's got to be taught a whole lot of things. That's part of his attraction." "Oh dear, I see you're very serious." The telephone rang. "Perhaps _that's_ him." But a familiar voice rang out from the instrument so that Brenda could hear it, "Good morning, darling, what's the dirt to-day?" "Oh, Polly, what a good party last night." "Not so bad for the old girl, was it? I say, what about your sister and Mr Beaver?" "What about them?" "How long has _that_ been on?" "There's nothing doing there, Polly." "Don't you tell me. They were well away last night. How's the boy managed it? That's what I want to know. He must have something we didn't know about..." "So Polly's on to your story. She'll be telling everyone in London at this moment." "How I wish there was anything to tell! The cub hasn't even rung me up... Well, I'll leave him in peace. If he doesn't do anything about me, I'll go down to Hetton this afternoon. Perhaps that's him." But it was only Allan from the Conservative Central | and brought on with them anyone with whom they happened to have been dining. This year, without any conscious effort on her part, there had been more formality. Those who wanted to bring friends had rung up in the morning and asked whether they might do so, and on the whole they had been cautious of even so much presumption. People who, only eighteen months before, would have pretended to be ignorant of her existence were now crowding up her stairs. She had got herself in line with the other married women of her world. As they started to go up, Brenda said, "You're not to leave me, please. I'm not going to know anybody," and Beaver again saw himself as the dominant male. They went straight through to the band and began dancing, not talking much except to greet other couples whom they knew. They danced for half an hour and then she said "All right, I'll give you a rest. Only don't let me get left." She danced with Jock Grant-Menzies and two or three old friends and did not see Beaver again until she came on him alone in the bar. He had been there a long time, talking sometimes to the couples who came in and out, but always ending up alone. He was not enjoying the evening and he told himself rather resentfully that it was because of Brenda; if he had come there in a large party it would have been different. Brenda saw he was out of temper and said, "Time for supper." It was early, and the tables were mostly empty except for earnest couples sitting alone. There was a large round table between the windows, with no one at it; they sat there. "I don't propose to move for a long time, d'you mind?" She wanted to make him feel important again, so she asked him about the other people in the room. Presently their table filled up. These were Brenda's old friends, among whom she used to live when she came out and in the first two years of her marriage, before Tony's father died; men in the early thirties, married women of her own age, none of whom knew Beaver or liked him. It was by far the gayest table in the room. Brenda thought "How my poor young man must be hating this"; it did not occur to her that, from Beaver's point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. "Are you dying of it?" she whispered. "No, indeed, never happier." "Well, I am. Let's go and dance." But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. "Oh dear," said Brenda, "now we're done. We can't go back to the table... it almost looks as though we should have to go home." "It's not two." "That's late for me. Look here, don't you come. Stay and enjoy yourself." "Of course I'll come," said Beaver. It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm round her in the taxi. They did not say much. "There already?" They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out. "I am afraid I can't ask you in for a drink. You see it isn't my house and I shouldn't know where to find anything." "No, of course not." "Well, good night, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening." "No, of course not," said Beaver. "Will you ring me in the morning... promise?" She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole. Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed. Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice. "Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?" "No, it's on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious when I rang him up." "What does he think of you?" "Simply can't make me out at all... terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits." "Are you going to go on with it?" "I shouldn't know." The telephone rang. "Perhaps that's him." But it was not. Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. "But, really, Brenda, he's such a _dreary_ young man." "I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all... besides I'm not sure he's _altogether_ awful... he's got that odious mother whom he adores... and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn't get married because of money and since then he's never had a proper affair with anyone decent... he's got to be taught a whole lot of things. That's part of his attraction." "Oh dear, I see you're very serious." The telephone rang. "Perhaps _that's_ him." But a familiar voice rang out from the instrument so that Brenda could hear it, "Good morning, darling, what's the dirt to-day?" "Oh, Polly, what a good party last night." "Not so bad for the old girl, was it? I say, what about your sister and Mr Beaver?" "What about them?" "How long has _that_ been on?" "There's nothing doing there, Polly." "Don't you tell me. They were well away last night. How's the boy managed it? That's what I want to know. He must have something we didn't know about..." "So Polly's on to your story. She'll be telling everyone in London at this moment." "How I wish there was anything to tell! The cub hasn't even rung me up... Well, I'll leave him in peace. If he doesn't do anything about me, I'll go down to Hetton this afternoon. Perhaps that's him." But it was only Allan from the Conservative Central Office, to say how sorry he had been not to get to the party the night before. "I hear Brenda disgraced herself," he said. "Goodness," said Brenda. "People do think that young men are easily come by." * * * * * "I scarcely saw you at Polly's last night," said Mrs Beaver. "What became of you?" "We went early. Brenda Last was tired." "She was looking lovely. I am so glad you've made friends with her. When are you going to see her again?" "I said I'd ring up." "Well, why don't you?" "Oh, mumsy, what's the use? I can't afford to start taking about women like Brenda Last. If I ring up she'll say, what are you doing, and I shall have to ask her to something, and it will be the same thing every day. I simply haven't the money." "I know, my son. It's very difficult for you... and you're wonderful about money. I ought to be grateful that I haven't a son always coming to me with debts. Still, it doesn't do to deny yourself _everything_, you know. You're getting to be an old bachelor already at twenty-five. I could see Brenda liked you, that evening she came here." "Oh, she likes me all right." "I hope she makes up her mind about that flat. They're going like hot cakes. I shall have to look about for another suitable house to split up. You'd be surprised who've been taking them--quite a number of people with houses in London already... Well, I must be getting back to work. I'm away for two nights by the way. See that Chambers looks after you properly. There are some Australians Sylvia Newport discovered who want to take a house in the country, so I'm driving them round to one or two that might do for them. Where are you lunching?" "Margot's." By one o'clock, when they came back from taking Djinn to the park, Beaver had not rung up. "So that's that," said Brenda, "I daresay I'm glad really." She sent a telegram to Tony to expect her by the afternoon train and, in a small voice, ordered her things to be packed. "I don't seem to have anywhere to lunch," she said. "Why don't you come to Margot's? I know she'd love it." "Well, ring up and ask her." So she met Beaver again. He was sitting some | of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. "Are you dying of it?" she whispered. "No, indeed, never happier." "Well, I am. Let's go and dance." But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. "Oh dear," said Brenda, "now we're done. We can't go back to the table... it almost looks as though we should have to go home." "It's not two." "That's late for me. Look here, don't you come. Stay and enjoy yourself." "Of course I'll come," said Beaver. It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm round her in the taxi. They did not say much. "There already?" They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out. "I am afraid I can't ask you in for a drink. You see it isn't my house and I shouldn't know where to find anything." "No, of course not." "Well, good night, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening." "No, of course not," said Beaver. "Will you ring me in the morning... promise?" She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole. Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed. Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice. "Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?" "No, it's on the ground floor." "Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?" "Oh, I don't know. What is it?" "Just to say "good night"." "Oh, I see, well--good night." "And you'll ring me in the morning?" "Yes." "Early, before you've made any plans." "Yes."<|quote|>"Then good night, bless you."</|quote|>Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed. * * * * * "...going away in the middle of the party." "I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in." "No one is going to know that." "And he was furious when I rang him up." "What does he think of you?" "Simply can't make me out at all... terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits." "Are you going to go on with it?" "I shouldn't know." The telephone rang. "Perhaps that's him." But it was not. Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. "But, really, Brenda, he's such a _dreary_ young man." "I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all... besides I'm not sure he's _altogether_ awful... he's got that odious mother whom he adores... and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn't get married because of money and since then | A Handful Of Dust |
said Mrs. Pegler, lastly, | No speaker | am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. | love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here | own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being | in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!" The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never | pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And _I_'ll give you to know, sir for this my dear boy won't that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year more than I want, for I put by out of it only making the condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!" The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up and down, and had every moment swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and redder, stopped short. "I don't exactly know," said Mr. Bounderby, "how I come to be favoured with the attendance of the present company, but I don't inquire. When they're quite satisfied, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse; whether they're satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse. I'm not bound to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken to do it, and I'm not a going to do it. Therefore those who expect any | for your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to know better!" She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said in a gentler tone: "Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son to to be brought up in the gutter?" "Josiah in the gutter!" exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. "No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you! My dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, that though he come of humble parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as the best could, and never thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might write and cipher beautiful, and I've his books at home to show it! Aye, have I!" said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant pride. "And my dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, sir, that after his beloved father died, when he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And _I_'ll give you to know, sir for this my dear boy won't that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year more than I want, for I put by out of it only making the condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!" The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up and down, and had every moment swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and redder, stopped short. "I don't exactly know," said Mr. Bounderby, "how I come to be favoured with the attendance of the present company, but I don't inquire. When they're quite satisfied, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse; whether they're satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse. I'm not bound to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken to do it, and I'm not a going to do it. Therefore those who expect any explanation whatever upon that branch of the subject, will be disappointed particularly Tom Gradgrind, and he can't know it too soon. In reference to the Bank robbery, there has been a mistake made, concerning my mother. If there hadn't been over-officiousness it wouldn't have been made, and I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether or no. Good evening!" Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in these terms, holding the door open for the company to depart, there was a blustering sheepishness upon him, at once extremely crestfallen and superlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully of humility, who had built his windy reputation upon lies, and in his boastfulness had put the honest truth as far away from him as if he had advanced the mean claim (there is no meaner) to tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. With the people filing off at the door he held, who he knew would carry what had passed to the whole town, to be given to the four winds, he could not have looked a Bully more shorn and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. Even that unlucky female, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacle | into my family affairs?" This allusion to her favourite feature overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen too. "My dear Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. "My darling boy! I am not to blame. It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it." "What did you let her bring you for? Couldn't you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her, or do something or other to her?" asked Bounderby. "My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was better to come quietly than make that stir in such a" Mrs. Pegler glanced timidly but proudly round the walls "such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it is not my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I have always lived quiet, and secret, Josiah, my dear. I have never broken the condition once. I have never said I was your mother. I have admired you at a distance; and if I have come to town sometimes, with long times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away again." Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked in impatient mortification up and down at the side of the long dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every syllable of Mrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each succeeding syllable became more and more round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady: "I am surprised, madam," he observed with severity, "that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and inhuman treatment of him." "_Me_ unnatural!" cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. "_Me_ inhuman! To my dear boy?" "Dear!" repeated Mr. Gradgrind. "Yes; dear in his self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say. Not very dear, however, when you deserted him in his infancy, and left him to the brutality of a drunken grandmother." "_I_ deserted my Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her hands. "Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to know better!" She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said in a gentler tone: "Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son to to be brought up in the gutter?" "Josiah in the gutter!" exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. "No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you! My dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, that though he come of humble parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as the best could, and never thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might write and cipher beautiful, and I've his books at home to show it! Aye, have I!" said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant pride. "And my dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, sir, that after his beloved father died, when he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And _I_'ll give you to know, sir for this my dear boy won't that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year more than I want, for I put by out of it only making the condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!" The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up and down, and had every moment swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and redder, stopped short. "I don't exactly know," said Mr. Bounderby, "how I come to be favoured with the attendance of the present company, but I don't inquire. When they're quite satisfied, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse; whether they're satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse. I'm not bound to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken to do it, and I'm not a going to do it. Therefore those who expect any explanation whatever upon that branch of the subject, will be disappointed particularly Tom Gradgrind, and he can't know it too soon. In reference to the Bank robbery, there has been a mistake made, concerning my mother. If there hadn't been over-officiousness it wouldn't have been made, and I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether or no. Good evening!" Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in these terms, holding the door open for the company to depart, there was a blustering sheepishness upon him, at once extremely crestfallen and superlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully of humility, who had built his windy reputation upon lies, and in his boastfulness had put the honest truth as far away from him as if he had advanced the mean claim (there is no meaner) to tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. With the people filing off at the door he held, who he knew would carry what had passed to the whole town, to be given to the four winds, he could not have looked a Bully more shorn and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. Even that unlucky female, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacle of exultation into the Slough of Despond, was not in so bad a plight as that remarkable man and self-made Humbug, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to occupy a bed at her son's for that night, walked together to the gate of Stone Lodge and there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined them before they had gone very far, and spoke with much interest of Stephen Blackpool; for whom he thought this signal failure of the suspicions against Mrs. Pegler was likely to work well. As to the whelp; throughout this scene as on all other late occasions, he had stuck close to Bounderby. He seemed to feel that as long as Bounderby could make no discovery without his knowledge, he was so far safe. He never visited his sister, and had only seen her once since she went home: that is to say on the night when he still stuck close to Bounderby, as already related. There was one dim unformed fear lingering about his sister's mind, to which she never gave utterance, which surrounded the graceless and ungrateful boy with a dreadful mystery. The same dark possibility had presented itself in the same shapeless guise, this very day, to Sissy, when Rachael spoke of some one who would be confounded by Stephen's return, having put him out of the way. Louisa had never spoken of harbouring any suspicion of her brother in connexion with the robbery, she and Sissy had held no confidence on the subject, save in that one interchange of looks when the unconscious father rested his gray head on his hand; but it was understood between them, and they both knew it. This other fear was so awful, that it hovered about each of them like a ghostly shadow; neither daring to think of its being near herself, far less of its being near the other. And still the forced spirit which the whelp had plucked up, throve with him. If Stephen Blackpool was not the thief, let him show himself. Why didn't he? Another night. Another day and night. No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come back? CHAPTER VI THE STARLIGHT THE Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, clear and cool, when early in the morning Sissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country. As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own | him in his infancy, and left him to the brutality of a drunken grandmother." "_I_ deserted my Josiah!" cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her hands. "Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to know better!" She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said in a gentler tone: "Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son to to be brought up in the gutter?" "Josiah in the gutter!" exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. "No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you! My dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, that though he come of humble parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as the best could, and never thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might write and cipher beautiful, and I've his books at home to show it! Aye, have I!" said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant pride. "And my dear boy knows, and will give _you_ to know, sir, that after his beloved father died, when he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And _I_'ll give you to know, sir for this my dear boy won't that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year more than I want, for I put by out of it only making the condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed it. And it's right," said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate championship, "that I _should_ keep down in my own part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love's own sake! And I am ashamed of you, sir,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Pegler, lastly,</|quote|>"for your slanders and suspicions. And I never stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!" The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up and down, and had every moment swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and redder, stopped short. "I don't exactly know," said Mr. Bounderby, "how I come to be favoured with the attendance of the present company, but I don't inquire. When they're quite satisfied, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse; whether they're satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be so good as to disperse. I'm not bound to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken to do it, and I'm not a going to do it. Therefore those who expect any explanation whatever upon that branch of the subject, will be disappointed particularly Tom Gradgrind, and he can't know it too soon. In reference to the Bank robbery, there has been a mistake made, concerning my mother. If there hadn't been over-officiousness it wouldn't have been made, and I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether or no. Good evening!" Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in these terms, holding the door open for the company to depart, there was a blustering sheepishness upon him, at once extremely crestfallen and superlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully of humility, who had built his windy reputation upon lies, and in his boastfulness had put the honest truth as far away from him as if he had advanced the mean claim (there is no meaner) to tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. With the people filing off at the door he held, who he knew would carry what had passed to the whole town, to be given to the four winds, he could not have looked a Bully more shorn and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. Even that unlucky female, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacle of exultation into the Slough of Despond, was not in so bad a plight as that remarkable man and self-made Humbug, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to occupy a bed at her son's for that night, walked together to the gate of Stone Lodge and there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined them before they had gone very far, and spoke with much interest of Stephen Blackpool; for whom he thought this signal failure of the suspicions against Mrs. Pegler was likely to work well. As to the whelp; throughout this scene as on all other late occasions, he had stuck close to Bounderby. He seemed to feel that as long as Bounderby could make no discovery without his knowledge, he was so far safe. He never visited his sister, and had only seen her once since she went | Hard Times |
They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: | No speaker | of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into | Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are | she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her | yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the | were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into | a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out | "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation. "About that dreadful afternoon in February." Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not" 'therefore I kissed you,' "because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--therefore I settled to fight him." Lucy thought of a very good remark. "You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit." And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He said: "Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same kind of brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies very deep, and men and women must fight it together before they shall enter the garden. But I do love you surely in a better way than he does." He thought. "Yes--really in a better way. I want you to have your own thoughts even when I hold you in my arms." He | be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"<|quote|>They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:</|quote|>"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" | A Room With A View |
"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." | Brenda | His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put | anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say | suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." | "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may | might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was | extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked | not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?" "Is Ben less fortunate than me?" "That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again." "All right." "And because you have been so naughty to-day you are not to ride to-morrow." "To-morrow's Sunday." "Well, next day then." "But you said" "to-morrow". "It isn't fair to change now." "John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep it. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides, he's usually abroad." "He'd give her to some other little boy. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny." At the door John said, "It's all right riding on Monday, isn't it? You did _say_" "to-morrow"." "Yes, I suppose so." "Hooray. Thunderclap went very well to-day. We jumped a big post and rail. She refused first time but went like a bird after that." "Didn't you come off?" "Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser." * * * * * "How did the lecture go?" Brenda asked. "Bad. Rotten bad." "The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben." "I'm not sure we shan't both be soon." They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining-hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging draughts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable electric radiator, but with little success. Even to-day, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining-hall. Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular r?gime of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't | Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop."<|quote|>"I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money."</|quote|>"Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon." "Yes, I know." "Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy | A Handful Of Dust |
"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not." | Margaret | was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd | A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I | the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so | at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I | and at eleven o clock one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the people s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" "I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, | carried far enough it is punishable by law. But no law--not public opinion even--punishes those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these? Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner s impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o clock one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the people s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" "I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little | women are to remain what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since men have moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I say they may. I would even admit a biological change." "I don t know, I don t know." "I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse," said the man. "They ve turned disgracefully strict." Mrs. Wilcox also rose. "Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like MacDowell? Do you mind his only having two noises? If you must really go, I ll see you out. Won t you even have coffee?" They left the dining-room closing the door behind them, and as Mrs. Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she said: "What an interesting life you all lead in London!" "No, we don t," said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. "We lead the lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox--really--We have something quiet and stable at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don t pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me to you." "I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. "I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more sport and politics, but--I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I m not particularly well just to-day. For another, you younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. Charles is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in the same boat, old and young. I never forget that." They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook hands. The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the dining-room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, and had dismissed her as uninteresting. CHAPTER X Several days passed. Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people--there are many of them--who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is involved, there is a definite name for such behaviour--flirting--and if carried far enough it is punishable by law. But no law--not public opinion even--punishes those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these? Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner s impatience, she wanted everything to be settled up immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet that are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o clock one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the people s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" "I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision. "No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year." "Is it? I am only used to country Christmases." "We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, and the presents don t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper." "You spoke of your next house, Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham Place?" "Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must." "Have you been there long?" "All our lives." "You will be very sorry to leave it." "I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. "If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are motoring." "Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!" Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I ll wait. On second thoughts, I ll wait. There s plenty of time still, isn t there, and I shall be able to get | ceremony, pencil, as it were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping? Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the presents. She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o clock one cheerless morning they started out in a brougham. "First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the people s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas?" "I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at the top of the page." "Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added:<|quote|>"I don t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I d rather not."</|quote|>"Why?" "Because I ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. I want more people, but no more things." "I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too apt to brood." "If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you, which I didn t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible." "I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as we go about." Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector s wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it | Howards End |
“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” | Harold Beecham | be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me | I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me | a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” | a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, | and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. | drought, brought forth a wealth of blossom. When done eating we had to wash the dishes. Such a scamper ensued back and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment. Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun and enjoyment. When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed. Some of the elderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations. I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he | princess. She sat down with great indifference, twirled a bracelet round her wrist, languidly opened her fan, and closed her eyes as she wafted it slowly to and fro. “By Jove, isn’t she a splendid creature?” enthusiastically whispered a gentleman sitting beside me. I looked at her critically. She was very big, and in a bony stiff way was much developed in figure. She had a nice big nose, and a long well-shaped face, a thin straight mouth, and empty light eyes. If my attention had not been called to her I would not have noticed her one way or the other, but being pointed to as a beauty, I weighed her according to my idea of facial charm, and pronounced her one of the most insipid-looking people I had set eyes upon. She was the kind of woman with whom men become much infatuated. She would never make a fool of herself by letting her emotions run away with her, because she had no emotions, but lived in a sea of unruffled self-consciousness and self-confidence. Any man would be proud to introduce her as his wife to his friends whom he had brought home to dinner. She would adorn the head of his table. She would never worry him with silly ideas. She would never act with impropriety. She would never become a companion to her husband. Bah, a man does not want his wife to be a companion! There were myths and fables in the old day; so there are now. The story that men like a companion as well as a wife is an up-to-date one. This train of thought was interrupted by our host, who appeared in the doorway, clad from sole to neck in white. We steered for the dining-room—twenty-two all told—thirteen men and nine representatives of the other sex. Aunt Helen got one seat of honour near the head of the table and Miss Derrick another. I drifted to the foot among the unimportant younger fry, where we had no end of fun and idle chatter. We had to wait on ourselves, and as all formality was dispensed with, it was something like a picnic. The heat was excessive. Every window and door were open, and the balmy, almost imperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and kissed our perspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from the wide old flower-garden, which, despite the drought, brought forth a wealth of blossom. When done eating we had to wash the dishes. Such a scamper ensued back and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment. Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun and enjoyment. When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed. Some of the elderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations. I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl. I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.” He approached me and was stooping to kiss me. I cannot account for my action or condemn it sufficiently. It was hysterical—the outcome of an overstrung, highly excitable, and nervous temperament. Perhaps my vanity was wounded, and my tendency to strike when touched was up in arms. The calm air of ownership with which Harold drew near annoyed me, or, as Sunday-school teachers would explain it, Satan got hold of me. He certainly placed a long strong riding-whip on the table beneath my hand! As Harold stooped with the intention of pressing his lips to mine, I quickly raised the whip and brought it with all my strength right across his face. The instant the whip had descended I would have smashed my arm on the door-post to recall that blow. But that was impossible. It had left a great weal on the healthy sun-tanned skin. His moustache had saved his lips, but it had caught his nose, the left cheek, had blinded the left eye, and had left a cut on the temple from which drops of blood were rolling down his cheek and staining his white coat. A momentary gleam of anger shot into his eyes and he gave a gasp, whether of surprise, pain, or annoyance, I know not. He made a gesture towards me. I half expected and fervently wished he would strike. The enormity of what I had done paralysed me. The whip fell from my fingers and I dropped on to a low lounge behind me, and placing my elbows | but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature. Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations. I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance. It was most enjoyable. There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them. Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances. A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard. I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance. “Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.” He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal. “Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”<|quote|>“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,”</|quote|>he said, quietly placing me in position. He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden. “I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words. I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten. We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: “It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing. I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself. You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow. Tell me, will it be yes or no?” This was an experience in love. He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him. He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic. This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be. A curious feeling—disappointment, perhaps—stole over me. His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me. “Is this not rather sudden? You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied. “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.” He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere. No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me. I put it down to his conceit. I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble. I felt annoyed. I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.” Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way. He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return. “Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want. We will talk about the matter more some other time. I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday. You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed. “I never dreamt you would say yes so | My Brilliant Career |
Mrs. Hilbery mused, | No speaker | could ever do. I fancy,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"that there was a kind | a thing neither of them could ever do. I fancy,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"that there was a kind of sincerity in those days | 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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. | 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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 | on to this past. Mrs. Hilbery was rambling on, from story to story. "That s Janie Mannering," she said, pointing to a superb, white-haired dame, whose satin robes seemed strung with pearls. "I must have told you how she found her cook drunk under the kitchen table when the Empress was coming to dinner, and tucked up her velvet sleeves (she always dressed like an Empress herself), cooked the whole meal, and appeared in the drawing-room as if she d been sleeping on a bank of roses all day. She could do anything with her hands they all could make a cottage or embroider a petticoat." "And that s Queenie Colquhoun," 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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 | felt all the unfairness of the claim which her mother tacitly made to her time and sympathy, and what Mrs. Hilbery took, Katharine thought bitterly, she wasted. Then, in a flash, she remembered that she had still to tell her about Cyril s misbehavior. Her anger immediately dissipated itself; it broke like some wave that has gathered itself high above the rest; the waters were resumed into the sea again, and Katharine felt once more full of peace and solicitude, and anxious only that her mother should be protected from pain. She crossed the room instinctively, and sat on the arm of her mother s chair. Mrs. Hilbery leant her head against her daughter s body. "What is nobler," she mused, turning over the photographs, "than to be a woman to whom every one turns, in sorrow or difficulty? How have the young women of your generation improved upon that, Katharine? I can see them now, sweeping over the lawns at Melbury House, in their flounces and furbelows, so calm and stately and imperial (and the monkey and the little black dwarf following behind), as if nothing mattered in the world but to be beautiful and kind. But they did more than we do, I sometimes think. They WERE, and that s better than doing. They seem to me like ships, like majestic ships, holding on their way, not shoving or pushing, not fretted by little things, as we are, but taking their way, like ships with white sails." Katharine tried to interrupt this discourse, but the opportunity did not come, and she could not forbear to turn over the pages of the album in which the old photographs were stored. The faces of these men and women shone forth wonderfully after the hubbub of living faces, and seemed, as her mother had said, to wear a marvelous dignity and calm, as if they had ruled their kingdoms justly and deserved great love. Some were of almost incredible beauty, others were ugly enough in a forcible way, but none were dull or bored or insignificant. The superb stiff folds of the crinolines suited the women; the cloaks and hats of the gentlemen seemed full of character. Once more Katharine felt the serene air all round her, and seemed far off to hear the solemn beating of the sea upon the shore. But she knew that she must join the present on to this past. Mrs. Hilbery was rambling on, from story to story. "That s Janie Mannering," she said, pointing to a superb, white-haired dame, whose satin robes seemed strung with pearls. "I must have told you how she found her cook drunk under the kitchen table when the Empress was coming to dinner, and tucked up her velvet sleeves (she always dressed like an Empress herself), cooked the whole meal, and appeared in the drawing-room as if she d been sleeping on a bank of roses all day. She could do anything with her hands they all could make a cottage or embroider a petticoat." "And that s Queenie Colquhoun," 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "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 | of the crinolines suited the women; the cloaks and hats of the gentlemen seemed full of character. Once more Katharine felt the serene air all round her, and seemed far off to hear the solemn beating of the sea upon the shore. But she knew that she must join the present on to this past. Mrs. Hilbery was rambling on, from story to story. "That s Janie Mannering," she said, pointing to a superb, white-haired dame, whose satin robes seemed strung with pearls. "I must have told you how she found her cook drunk under the kitchen table when the Empress was coming to dinner, and tucked up her velvet sleeves (she always dressed like an Empress herself), cooked the whole meal, and appeared in the drawing-room as if she d been sleeping on a bank of roses all day. She could do anything with her hands they all could make a cottage or embroider a petticoat." "And that s Queenie Colquhoun," 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,"<|quote|>Mrs. Hilbery mused,</|quote|>"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 | Night And Day |
"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night." | Harry Maylie | said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! | why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried | reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she | ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but | discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of | so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. "I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night," said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor | "Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. "Go on!" "You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said Monks, "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search ay, and found the child." "She took it, did she?" "No. The people were poor and began to sicken at least the man did of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes. Leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. "I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night," said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each other to see his face: some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes: and others whispering their neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the jury, | lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand.<|quote|>"Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night."</|quote|>"And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. "I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night," said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, | Oliver Twist |
Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived. | No speaker | talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you | of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking | you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he | remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," | mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But she submitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon the opposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire to laugh stirred them slightly. "You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, and then she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to know whether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction. Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separate conversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and people who scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names with apparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance and general friendliness which human beings in England only attain after sitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast in the air | the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean that Sunday afternoon. Was it the day Mr. Fortescue came? Yes, I think I remembered it." The three of them stood for a moment awkwardly silent, and then Mary left them in order to see that the great pitcher of coffee was properly handled, for beneath all her education she preserved the anxieties of one who owns china. Ralph could think of nothing further to say; but could one have stripped off his mask of flesh, one would have seen that his will-power was rigidly set upon a single object that Miss Hilbery should obey him. He wished her to stay there until, by some measures not yet apparent to him, he had conquered her interest. These states of mind transmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it was evident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But she submitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon the opposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire to laugh stirred them slightly. "You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, and then she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to know whether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction. Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separate conversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and people who scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names with apparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance and general friendliness which human beings in England only attain after sitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast in the air of the street freezes them into isolation once more. Cloaks were being flung round the shoulders, hats swiftly pinned to the head; and Denham had the mortification of seeing Katharine helped to prepare herself by the ridiculous Rodney. It was not the convention of the meeting to say good-bye, or necessarily even to nod to the person with whom one was talking; but, nevertheless, Denham was disappointed by the completeness with which Katharine parted from him, without any attempt to finish her sentence. She left with Rodney. CHAPTER V Denham had no conscious intention of following Katharine, but, seeing her depart, he took his hat and ran rather more quickly down the stairs than he would have done if Katharine had not been in front of him. He overtook a friend of his, by name Harry Sandys, who was going the same way, and they walked together a few paces behind Katharine and Rodney. The night was very still, and on such nights, when the traffic thins away, the walker becomes conscious of the moon in the street, as if the curtains of the sky had been drawn apart, and the heaven lay bare, as it does in the country. | your grandfather?" Mary pursued. Katharine seemed instantly to be confronted by some familiar thought from which she wished to escape. She replied, "Yes, I am helping my mother," in such a way that Mary felt herself baffled, and put back again into the position in which she had been at the beginning of their talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious power of drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions through her far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition of curious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of the convenient term "egoist." "She s an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up to give to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they were discussing Miss Hilbery. "Heavens, what a mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person. "Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid." They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a joke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and they looked back into the room again. Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced his sentence. "I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that picture glazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean that Sunday afternoon. Was it the day Mr. Fortescue came? Yes, I think I remembered it." The three of them stood for a moment awkwardly silent, and then Mary left them in order to see that the great pitcher of coffee was properly handled, for beneath all her education she preserved the anxieties of one who owns china. Ralph could think of nothing further to say; but could one have stripped off his mask of flesh, one would have seen that his will-power was rigidly set upon a single object that Miss Hilbery should obey him. He wished her to stay there until, by some measures not yet apparent to him, he had conquered her interest. These states of mind transmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it was evident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But she submitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon the opposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire to laugh stirred them slightly. "You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, and then she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to know whether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction. Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separate conversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and people who scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names with apparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance and general friendliness which human beings in England only attain after sitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast in the air of the street freezes them into isolation once more. Cloaks were being flung round the shoulders, hats swiftly pinned to the head; and Denham had the mortification of seeing Katharine helped to prepare herself by the ridiculous Rodney. It was not the convention of the meeting to say good-bye, or necessarily even to nod to the person with whom one was talking; but, nevertheless, Denham was disappointed by the completeness with which Katharine parted from him, without any attempt to finish her sentence. She left with Rodney. CHAPTER V Denham had no conscious intention of following Katharine, but, seeing her depart, he took his hat and ran rather more quickly down the stairs than he would have done if Katharine had not been in front of him. He overtook a friend of his, by name Harry Sandys, who was going the same way, and they walked together a few paces behind Katharine and Rodney. The night was very still, and on such nights, when the traffic thins away, the walker becomes conscious of the moon in the street, as if the curtains of the sky had been drawn apart, and the heaven lay bare, as it does in the country. The air was softly cool, so that people who had been sitting talking in a crowd found it pleasant to walk a little before deciding to stop an omnibus or encounter light again in an underground railway. Sandys, who was a barrister with a philosophic tendency, took out his pipe, lit it, murmured "hum" and "ha," and was silent. The couple in front of them kept their distance accurately, and appeared, so far as Denham could judge by the way they turned towards each other, to be talking very constantly. He observed that when a pedestrian going the opposite way forced them to part they came together again directly afterwards. Without intending to watch them he never quite lost sight of the yellow scarf twisted round Katharine s head, or the light overcoat which made Rodney look fashionable among the crowd. At the Strand he supposed that they would separate, but instead they crossed the road, and took their way down one of the narrow passages which lead through ancient courts to the river. Among the crowd of people in the big thoroughfares Rodney seemed merely to be lending Katharine his escort, but now, when passengers were rare and the footsteps of the couple were distinctly heard in the silence, Denham could not help picturing to himself some change in their conversation. The effect of the light and shadow, which seemed to increase their height, was to make them mysterious and significant, so that Denham had no feeling of irritation with Katharine, but rather a half-dreamy acquiescence in the course of the world. Yes, she did very well to dream about but Sandys had suddenly begun to talk. He was a solitary man who had made his friends at college and always addressed them as if they were still undergraduates arguing in his room, though many months or even years had passed in some cases between the last sentence and the present one. The method was a little singular, but very restful, for it seemed to ignore completely all accidents of human life, and to span very deep abysses with a few simple words. On this occasion he began, while they waited for a minute on the edge of the Strand: "I hear that Bennett has given up his theory of truth." Denham returned a suitable answer, and he proceeded to explain how this decision had been arrived at, and | These states of mind transmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it was evident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But she submitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon the opposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire to laugh stirred them slightly. "You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors."<|quote|>Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived.</|quote|>"In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, and then she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to know whether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction. Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separate conversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and people who scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names with apparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance and general friendliness which human beings in England only attain after sitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast in the air of the street freezes them into isolation once more. Cloaks were being flung round the shoulders, hats swiftly pinned to the head; and Denham had the mortification of seeing Katharine helped to prepare herself by the ridiculous Rodney. It was not the convention of the meeting to say good-bye, or necessarily even to nod to the person with whom one was talking; but, nevertheless, Denham was disappointed by the completeness with which Katharine | Night And Day |
"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years." | Katharine Hilbery | the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up | She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, | you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," he added. She looked into the fire silently. She could not deny that the surface of | say some old creature is enjoying them by this time." "I should have thought that you never forgot anything," William remarked, as they settled down again. "That s part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied. "And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," 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 | in the world have I done with them?" She rose and began to wander about the room. William rose also, and stood in front of the fire, muttering, "Oysters, oysters your basket of oysters!" but though he looked vaguely here and there, as if the oysters might be on the top of the bookshelf, his eyes returned always to Katharine. She drew the curtain and looked out among the scanty leaves of the plane-trees. "I had them," she calculated, "in the Strand; I sat on a seat. Well, never mind," she concluded, turning back into the room abruptly, "I dare say some old creature is enjoying them by this time." "I should have thought that you never forgot anything," William remarked, as they settled down again. "That s part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied. "And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," 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 | particular afternoon in December? He read her note once more, and the postscript about the sonnet settled the matter. Evidently she admired most the poet in him; and as this, on the whole, agreed with his own opinion, he decided to err, if anything, on the side of shabbiness. His demeanor was also regulated with premeditation; he spoke little, and only on impersonal matters; he wished her to realize that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing nothing remarkable, although, in fact, that was a point about which he was not at all sure. Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing thoughts; and if he had been completely master of himself, he might, indeed, have complained that she was a trifle absent-minded. The ease, the familiarity of the situation alone with Rodney, among teacups and candles, had more effect upon her than was apparent. She asked to look at his books, and then at his pictures. It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her hands that she exclaimed, impulsively, if incongruously: "My oysters! I had a basket," she explained, "and I ve left it somewhere. Uncle Dudley dines with us to-night. What in the world have I done with them?" She rose and began to wander about the room. William rose also, and stood in front of the fire, muttering, "Oysters, oysters your basket of oysters!" but though he looked vaguely here and there, as if the oysters might be on the top of the bookshelf, his eyes returned always to Katharine. She drew the curtain and looked out among the scanty leaves of the plane-trees. "I had them," she calculated, "in the Strand; I sat on a seat. Well, never mind," she concluded, turning back into the room abruptly, "I dare say some old creature is enjoying them by this time." "I should have thought that you never forgot anything," William remarked, as they settled down again. "That s part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied. "And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," 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 | of discovery was life, and that, presumably, the nature of one s goal mattered not at all. She sat down for a moment upon one of the seats; felt herself carried along in the swirl of many things; decided, in her sudden way, that it was time to heave all this thinking overboard, and rose, leaving a fishmonger s basket on the seat behind her. Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon Rodney s door. "Well, William," she said, "I m afraid I m late." It was true, but he was so glad to see her that he forgot his annoyance. He had been occupied for over an hour in making things ready for her, and he now had his reward in seeing her look right and left, as she slipped her cloak from her shoulders, with evident satisfaction, although she said nothing. He had seen that the fire burnt well; jam-pots were on the table, tin covers shone in the fender, and the shabby comfort of the room was extreme. He was dressed in his old crimson dressing-gown, which was faded irregularly, and had bright new patches on it, like the paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone. He made the tea, and Katharine drew off her gloves, and crossed her legs with a gesture that was rather masculine in its ease. Nor did they talk much until they were smoking cigarettes over the fire, having placed their teacups upon the floor between them. They had not met since they had exchanged letters about their relationship. Katharine s answer to his protestation had been short and sensible. Half a sheet of notepaper contained the whole of it, for she merely had to say that she was not in love with him, and so could not marry him, but their friendship would continue, she hoped, unchanged. She had added a postscript in which she stated, "I like your sonnet very much." So far as William was concerned, this appearance of ease was assumed. Three times that afternoon he had dressed himself in a tail-coat, and three times he had discarded it for an old dressing-gown; three times he had placed his pearl tie-pin in position, and three times he had removed it again, the little looking-glass in his room being the witness of these changes of mind. The question was, which would Katharine prefer on this particular afternoon in December? He read her note once more, and the postscript about the sonnet settled the matter. Evidently she admired most the poet in him; and as this, on the whole, agreed with his own opinion, he decided to err, if anything, on the side of shabbiness. His demeanor was also regulated with premeditation; he spoke little, and only on impersonal matters; he wished her to realize that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing nothing remarkable, although, in fact, that was a point about which he was not at all sure. Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing thoughts; and if he had been completely master of himself, he might, indeed, have complained that she was a trifle absent-minded. The ease, the familiarity of the situation alone with Rodney, among teacups and candles, had more effect upon her than was apparent. She asked to look at his books, and then at his pictures. It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her hands that she exclaimed, impulsively, if incongruously: "My oysters! I had a basket," she explained, "and I ve left it somewhere. Uncle Dudley dines with us to-night. What in the world have I done with them?" She rose and began to wander about the room. William rose also, and stood in front of the fire, muttering, "Oysters, oysters your basket of oysters!" but though he looked vaguely here and there, as if the oysters might be on the top of the bookshelf, his eyes returned always to Katharine. She drew the curtain and looked out among the scanty leaves of the plane-trees. "I had them," she calculated, "in the Strand; I sat on a seat. Well, never mind," she concluded, turning back into the room abruptly, "I dare say some old creature is enjoying them by this time." "I should have thought that you never forgot anything," William remarked, as they settled down again. "That s part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied. "And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," 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, | She had added a postscript in which she stated, "I like your sonnet very much." So far as William was concerned, this appearance of ease was assumed. Three times that afternoon he had dressed himself in a tail-coat, and three times he had discarded it for an old dressing-gown; three times he had placed his pearl tie-pin in position, and three times he had removed it again, the little looking-glass in his room being the witness of these changes of mind. The question was, which would Katharine prefer on this particular afternoon in December? He read her note once more, and the postscript about the sonnet settled the matter. Evidently she admired most the poet in him; and as this, on the whole, agreed with his own opinion, he decided to err, if anything, on the side of shabbiness. His demeanor was also regulated with premeditation; he spoke little, and only on impersonal matters; he wished her to realize that in visiting him for the first time alone she was doing nothing remarkable, although, in fact, that was a point about which he was not at all sure. Certainly Katharine seemed quite unmoved by any disturbing thoughts; and if he had been completely master of himself, he might, indeed, have complained that she was a trifle absent-minded. The ease, the familiarity of the situation alone with Rodney, among teacups and candles, had more effect upon her than was apparent. She asked to look at his books, and then at his pictures. It was while she held photograph from the Greek in her hands that she exclaimed, impulsively, if incongruously: "My oysters! I had a basket," she explained, "and I ve left it somewhere. Uncle Dudley dines with us to-night. What in the world have I done with them?" She rose and began to wander about the room. William rose also, and stood in front of the fire, muttering, "Oysters, oysters your basket of oysters!" but though he looked vaguely here and there, as if the oysters might be on the top of the bookshelf, his eyes returned always to Katharine. She drew the curtain and looked out among the scanty leaves of the plane-trees. "I had them," she calculated, "in the Strand; I sat on a seat. Well, never mind," she concluded, turning back into the room abruptly, "I dare say some old creature is enjoying them by this time." "I should have thought that you never forgot anything," William remarked, as they settled down again. "That s part of the myth about me, I know," Katharine replied. "And I wonder," William proceeded, with some caution, "what the truth about you is? But I know this sort of thing doesn t interest you," he added hastily, with a touch of peevishness. "No; it doesn t interest me very much," she replied candidly. "What shall we talk about then?" he asked. She looked rather whimsically round the walls of the room.<|quote|>"However we start, we end by talking about the same thing about poetry, I mean. I wonder if you realize, William, that I ve never read even Shakespeare? It s rather wonderful how I ve kept it up all these years."</|quote|>"You ve kept it up for ten years very beautifully, as far as I m concerned," he said. "Ten years? So long as that?" "And I don t think it s always bored you," 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 | Night And Day |
he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign, | No speaker | that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally | Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the | immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” | is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was | see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had | turn, “as to let him examine the Moretto.” He faced again to the personage he mentioned, who, simply standing off and watching, in concentrated interest as well as detachment, this interview of his cool daughter and her still cooler guest, had plainly “elected,” as it were, to give them rope to hang themselves. Staring very hard at Hugh he met his appeal, but in a silence clearly calculated; against which, however, the young man, bearing up, made such head as he could. He offered his next word, that is, equally to the two companions. “It’s not at all impossible--for such curious effects have been!--that the Dedborough picture seen _after_ the Verona will point a different moral from the Verona seen after the Dedborough.” “And so awfully _long_ after--wasn’t it?” Lady Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the | of the two persons represented. I still hold,” he persuasively went on, “that our man is their man, but Pappendick decides that he isn’t--and as Pappendick has so _much_ to be reckoned with of course I’m awfully abashed.” Lord Theign had remained what he had begun by being, immeasurably and inaccessibly detached--only with his curiosity more moved than he could help and as, on second thought, to see what sort of a still more offensive fool the heated youth would really make of himself. “Yes--you seem indeed remarkably abashed!” Hugh clearly was thrown again, by the cold “cut” of this, colder than any mere social ignoring, upon a sense of the damnably poor figure he did offer; so that, while he straightened himself and kept a mastery of his manner and a control of his reply, we should yet have felt his cheek tingle. “I backed my own judgment strongly, I know--and I’ve got my snub. But I don’t in the least knock under.” “Only the first authority in Europe doesn’t care, I suppose, whether you do or not!” “He isn’t _the_ first authority in Europe, thank God,” the young man returned-- “though he is, I admit, one of the three or four first. And I mean to appeal--I’ve another shot in my locker,” he went on with his rather painfully forced smile to Lady Grace. “I had already written, you see, to dear old Bardi.” “Bardi of Milan?” --she recognised, it was admirably manifest, the appeal of his directness to her generosity, awkward as their predicament was also for her herself, and spoke to him as she might have spoken without her father’s presence. It would have shown for beautiful, on the spot, had there been any one to perceive it, that he devoutly recorded her intelligence. “You know of him?--how delightful of you! For the Italians, I now feel,” he quickly explained, “he must have _most_ the instinct--and it has come over me since that he’d have been more our man. Besides of course his so knowing the Verona picture.” She had fairly hung on his lips. “But does he know ours?” “No--not ours yet. That is” --he consciously and quickly took himself up-- “not yours! But as Pap-pendick went to Verona for us I’ve asked Bardi to do us the great favour to come here--if Lord Theign will be so good,” he said, bethinking himself with a turn, “as to let him examine the Moretto.” He faced again to the personage he mentioned, who, simply standing off and watching, in concentrated interest as well as detachment, this interview of his cool daughter and her still cooler guest, had plainly “elected,” as it were, to give them rope to hang themselves. Staring very hard at Hugh he met his appeal, but in a silence clearly calculated; against which, however, the young man, bearing up, made such head as he could. He offered his next word, that is, equally to the two companions. “It’s not at all impossible--for such curious effects have been!--that the Dedborough picture seen _after_ the Verona will point a different moral from the Verona seen after the Dedborough.” “And so awfully _long_ after--wasn’t it?” Lady Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace waited a little, but spoke as quietly as if she had been prepared. “Has the question a bearing on the promise you a short time ago demanded of me?” “It has a bearing on the so extraordinary appearance of your intimacy with him!” “You mean that if he _should_ be--what you ask me about--your exaction would then be modified?” “My request that you break it short off? That request would, on the contrary,” Lord Theign pronounced, “rest on an immense new ground. Therefore I insist on your telling me the truth.” “Won’t the truth be before you, father, if you’ll _think_ a moment--without extravagance?” After which, while, as stiffly as ever--and it probably seemed to her impatience as stupidly--he didn’t rise to it, she went on: “If I _offered_ you not again to see him, does that make for you the appearance--?” “If you offered it, you mean, on your condition--my promising not to sell? I promised,” said Lord Theign, “absolutely nothing at all!” She took him up with all expression. “So I promised as little! But that I should have been able to say what I did sufficiently meets your curiosity.” She might, wronged as she held herself, have felt him stupid not to see _how_ wronged; but he was in any case acute for an evasion. “You risked your offer for the great equivalent over which you’ve so wildly worked yourself | two companions. “It’s not at all impossible--for such curious effects have been!--that the Dedborough picture seen _after_ the Verona will point a different moral from the Verona seen after the Dedborough.” “And so awfully _long_ after--wasn’t it?” Lady Grace asked. “Awfully long after--it was years ago that Pappen-dick, being in this country for such purposes, was kindly admitted to your house when none of you were there, or at least visible.” “Oh of course we don’t see _every one!_” --she heroically kept it up. “You don’t see every one,” Hugh bravely laughed, “and that makes it all the more charming that you did, and that you still do, see me. I shall really get Bardi,” he pursued, “to go again to Verona----” “The last thing before coming here?” --she had guessed before he could say it; and still she sustained it, so that he could shine at her for assent. “How happy they should like so to work for you!” “Ah, we’re a band of brothers,” he returned-- “‘we few, we happy few’--from country to country” ; to which he added, gaining more ease for an eye at Lord Theign: “though we do have our little rubs and disputes, like Pappendick and me now. The thing, you see, is the ripping _interest_ of it all; since,” he developed and explained, for his elder friend’s benefit, with pertinacious cheer and an assurance superficially at least recovered, “when we’re really ‘hit’ over a case we’ll do almost anything in life.” Lady Grace, recklessly throbbing in the breath of it all, immediately appropriated what her father let alone. “It must be so lovely to _feel_ so hit!” “It does spoil one,” Hugh laughed, “for milder joys. Of course what I have to consider is the chance--putting it at the _merest_ chance--of Bardi’s own wet blanket! But that’s again so very small--though,”<|quote|>he pulled up with a drop to the comparative dismal, which he offered as an almost familiar tribute to Lord Theign,</|quote|>“you’ll retort upon me naturally that I promised you the possibility of Pappendick’s veto would be: all on the poor dear old basis, you’ll claim, of the wish father to the thought. Well, I do wish to be right as much as I believe I am. Only give me time!” he sublimely insisted. “How can we prevent your using it?” Lady Grace again interrupted; “or the fact either that if the worst comes to the worst--” “The thing” --he at once pursued-- “will always be at the least the greatest of Morettos? Ah,” he cried so cheerily that there was still a freedom in it toward any it might concern, “the worst sha’n’t come to the worst, but the best to the best: my conviction of which it is that supports me in the deep regret I have to express” --and he faced Lord Theign again-- “for any inconvenience I may have caused you by my abortive undertaking. That, I vow here before Lady Grace, I will yet more than make up!” Lord Theign, after the longest but the blankest contemplation of him, broke hereupon, for the first time, that attitude of completely sustained and separate silence which he had yet made compatible with his air of having deeply noted every element of the scene--so that it was of this full view his participation had effectively consisted, “I haven’t the least idea, sir, what you’re talking about!” And he squarely turned his back, strolling toward the other room, the threshold of which he the next moment had passed, remaining scantily within, however, and in sight of the others, not to say of ourselves; even though averted and ostensibly lost in some scrutiny that might have had for its object the great enshrined Lawrence. There ensued upon his words and movement a vivid mute passage, the richest of commentaries, between his companions; who, deeply divided by the width of the ample room, followed him with their eyes and then used for their own interchange these organs of remark, eloquent now over Hugh’s unmistakable dismissal at short order, on which obviously he must at once act. Lady Grace’s young arms conveyed to him by a despairing contrite motion of surrender that she had done for him all she could do in his presence and that, however sharply doubtful the result, he was to leave the rest to herself. They communicated thus, the strenuous pair, for their full moment, without speaking; only with the prolonged, the charged give and take of their gaze and, it might well have been imagined, of their passion. Hugh had for an instant a show of hesitation--of the arrested impulse, while he kept her father within range, to launch at that personage before going some final remonstrance. It was the girl’s raised hand and gesture of warning that waved away for him such a mistake; he decided, under her pressure, and after a last searching and answering look at her reached the door and let himself out. The stillness was then prolonged a minute by the further wait of the two others, Lord Theign where he had been standing and his daughter on the spot from which she had not moved. It presently ended in his lordship’s turn about as if inferring by the silence that the intruder had withdrawn. “Is that young man your lover?” he said as he drew again near. Lady Grace | The Outcry |
"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." | Mr. Emerson | 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."</|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took | "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."</|quote|>"Oh, Mr. Emerson" "--she took hold of his hand--" "you | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? | 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." "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."</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
said the old lady, | No speaker | of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to | tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock | and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in | life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance | such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling of apprehension and growing paralysis that the conspirators viewed any future performances of the old lady at roulette. Yet this second factor was not quite so important as the first, since, though the Grandmother had twice declared that she did not intend to give the General any money, that declaration was not a complete ground for the abandonment of hope. Certainly De Griers, who, with the General, | with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling of apprehension and growing paralysis that the conspirators viewed any future performances of the old lady at roulette. Yet this second factor was not quite so important as the first, since, though the Grandmother had twice declared that she did not intend to give the General any money, that declaration was not a complete ground for the abandonment of hope. Certainly De Griers, who, with the General, was up to the neck in the affair, had not wholly lost courage; and I felt sure that Mlle. Blanche also Mlle. Blanche who was not only as deeply involved as the other two, but also expectant of becoming Madame General and an important legatee would not lightly surrender the position, but would use her every resource of coquetry upon the old lady, in order to afford a contrast to the impetuous Polina, who was difficult to understand, and lacked the art of pleasing. Yet now, when the Grandmother had just performed an astonishing feat at roulette; now, when the old lady s personality had been so clearly and typically revealed as that of a rugged, arrogant woman who was "tomb e en enfance"; now, when everything appeared to be lost, why, now the Grandmother was as merry as a child which plays with thistle-down. "Good Lord!" I thought with, may God forgive me, a most malicious smile, "every ten-g lden piece which the Grandmother staked must have raised a blister on the General s heart, and maddened De Griers, and driven Mlle. de Cominges almost to frenzy with the sight of this spoon dangling before her lips." Another factor | have ten g lden apiece." "Madame la princesse Un pauvre expatri Malheur continuel Les princes russes sont si g n reux!" said a man who for some time past had been hanging around the old lady s chair a personage who, dressed in a shabby frockcoat and coloured waistcoat, kept taking off his cap, and smiling pathetically. "Give him ten g lden," said the Grandmother. "No, give him twenty. Now, enough of that, or I shall never get done with you all. Take a moment s rest, and then carry me away. Prascovia, I mean to buy a new dress for you tomorrow. Yes, and for you too, Mlle. Blanche. Please translate, Prascovia." "Merci, Madame," replied Mlle. Blanche gratefully as she twisted her face into the mocking smile which usually she kept only for the benefit of De Griers and the General. The latter looked confused, and seemed greatly relieved when we reached the Avenue. "How surprised Theodosia too will be!" went on the Grandmother (thinking of the General s nursemaid). "She, like yourselves, shall have the price of a new gown. Here, Alexis Ivanovitch! Give that beggar something" (a crooked-backed ragamuffin had approached to stare at us). "But perhaps he is _not_ a beggar only a rascal," I replied. "Never mind, never mind. Give him a g lden." I approached the beggar in question, and handed him the coin. Looking at me in great astonishment, he silently accepted the g lden, while from his person there proceeded a strong smell of liquor. "Have you never tried your luck, Alexis Ivanovitch?" "No, Madame." "Yet just now I could see that you were burning to do so?" "I _do_ mean to try my luck presently." "Then stake everything upon zero. You have seen how it ought to be done? How much capital do you possess?" "Two hundred g lden, Madame." "Not very much. See here; I will lend you five hundred if you wish. Take this purse of mine." With that she added sharply to the General: "But _you_ need not expect to receive any." This seemed to upset him, but he said nothing, and De Griers contented himself by scowling. "Que diable!" he whispered to the General. "C est une terrible vieille." "Look! Another beggar, another beggar!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Alexis Ivanovitch, go and give him a g lden." As she spoke I saw approaching us a grey-headed old man with a wooden leg a man who was dressed in a blue frockcoat and carrying a staff. He looked like an old soldier. As soon as I tendered him the coin he fell back a step or two, and eyed me threateningly. "Was ist der Teufel!" he cried, and appended thereto a round dozen of oaths. "The man is a perfect fool!" exclaimed the Grandmother, waving her hand. "Move on now, for I am simply famished. When we have lunched we will return to that place." "What?" cried I. "You are going to play _again?_" "What else do you suppose?" she retorted. "Are you going only to sit here, and grow sour, and let me look at you?" "Madame," said De Griers confidentially, "les chances peuvent tourner. Une seule mauvaise chance, et vous perdrez tout surtout avec votre jeu. C tait terrible!" "Oui; vous perdrez absolument," put in Mlle. Blanche. "What has that got to do with _you?_" retorted the old lady. "It is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling of apprehension and growing paralysis that the conspirators viewed any future performances of the old lady at roulette. Yet this second factor was not quite so important as the first, since, though the Grandmother had twice declared that she did not intend to give the General any money, that declaration was not a complete ground for the abandonment of hope. Certainly De Griers, who, with the General, was up to the neck in the affair, had not wholly lost courage; and I felt sure that Mlle. Blanche also Mlle. Blanche who was not only as deeply involved as the other two, but also expectant of becoming Madame General and an important legatee would not lightly surrender the position, but would use her every resource of coquetry upon the old lady, in order to afford a contrast to the impetuous Polina, who was difficult to understand, and lacked the art of pleasing. Yet now, when the Grandmother had just performed an astonishing feat at roulette; now, when the old lady s personality had been so clearly and typically revealed as that of a rugged, arrogant woman who was "tomb e en enfance"; now, when everything appeared to be lost, why, now the Grandmother was as merry as a child which plays with thistle-down. "Good Lord!" I thought with, may God forgive me, a most malicious smile, "every ten-g lden piece which the Grandmother staked must have raised a blister on the General s heart, and maddened De Griers, and driven Mlle. de Cominges almost to frenzy with the sight of this spoon dangling before her lips." Another factor is the circumstance that even when, overjoyed at winning, the Grandmother was distributing alms right and left, and taking every one to be a beggar, she again snapped out to the General that he was not going to be allowed any of her money which meant that the old lady had quite made up her mind on the point, and was sure of it. Yes, danger loomed ahead. All these thoughts passed through my mind during the few moments that, having left the old lady s rooms, I was ascending to my own room on the top storey. What most struck me was the fact that, though I had divined the chief, the stoutest, threads which united the various actors in the drama, I had, until now, been ignorant of the methods and secrets of the game. For Polina had never been completely open with me. Although, on occasions, it had happened that involuntarily, as it were, she had revealed to me something of her heart, I had noticed that in most cases in fact, nearly always she had either laughed away these revelations, or grown confused, or purposely imparted to them a false guise. Yes, she must have concealed a great deal from me. But, I had a presentiment that now the end of this strained and mysterious situation was approaching. Another stroke, and all would be finished and exposed. Of my own fortunes, interested though I was in the affair, I took no account. I was in the strange position of possessing but two hundred g lden, of being at a loose end, of lacking both a post, the means of subsistence, a shred of hope, and any plans for the future, yet of caring nothing for these things. Had not my mind been so full of Polina, I should have given myself up to the comical piquancy of the impending denouement, and laughed my fill at it. But the thought of Polina was torture to me. That her fate was settled I already had an inkling; yet _that_ was not the thought which was giving me so much uneasiness. What I really wished for was to penetrate her secrets. I wanted her to come to me and say, "I love you," and, if she would not so come, or if to hope that she would ever do so was an unthinkable absurdity why, then there was nothing | is not _your_ money that I am going to lose; it is my own. And where is that Mr. Astley of yours?" she added to myself. "He stayed behind in the Casino." "What a pity! He is such a nice sort of man!" Arriving home, and meeting the landlord on the staircase, the Grandmother called him to her side, and boasted to him of her winnings thereafter doing the same to Theodosia, and conferring upon her thirty g lden; after which she bid her serve luncheon. The meal over, Theodosia and Martha broke into a joint flood of ecstasy. "I was watching you all the time, Madame," quavered Martha, "and I asked Potapitch what mistress was trying to do. And, my word! the heaps and _heaps_ of money that were lying upon the table! Never in my life have I seen so much money. And there were gentlefolk around it, and other gentlefolk sitting down. So, I asked Potapitch where all these gentry had come from; for, thought I, maybe the Holy Mother of God will help our mistress among them. Yes, I prayed for you, Madame, and my heart died within me, so that I kept trembling and trembling. The Lord be with her, I thought to myself; and in answer to my prayer He has now sent you what He has done! Even yet I tremble I tremble to think of it all." "Alexis Ivanovitch,"<|quote|>said the old lady,</|quote|>"after luncheon, that is to say, about four o clock get ready to go out with me again. But in the meanwhile, good-bye. Do not forget to call a doctor, for I must take the waters. Now go and get rested a little." I left the Grandmother s presence in a state of bewilderment. Vainly I endeavoured to imagine what would become of our party, or what turn the affair would next take. I could perceive that none of the party had yet recovered their presence of mind least of all the General. The factor of the Grandmother s appearance in place of the hourly expected telegram to announce her death (with, of course, resultant legacies) had so upset the whole scheme of intentions and projects that it was with a decided feeling of apprehension and growing paralysis that the conspirators viewed any future performances of the old lady at roulette. Yet this second factor was not quite so important as the first, since, though the Grandmother had twice declared that she did not intend to give the General any money, that declaration was not a complete ground for the abandonment of hope. Certainly De Griers, who, with the General, was up to the neck in the affair, had not wholly lost courage; and I felt sure that Mlle. Blanche also Mlle. Blanche who was not only as deeply involved as the other two, but also expectant of becoming Madame General and an important legatee would not lightly surrender the position, but would use her every resource of coquetry upon the old lady, in order to afford a contrast to the impetuous Polina, who was difficult to understand, and lacked the art of pleasing. Yet now, when the Grandmother had just performed an astonishing feat at roulette; now, when the old lady s personality had been so clearly and typically revealed as that of a rugged, arrogant woman who was "tomb e en enfance"; now, when everything appeared to be lost, why, now the Grandmother was as merry as a child which plays with thistle-down. "Good Lord!" I thought with, may God forgive me, a most malicious smile, "every ten-g lden piece which the Grandmother staked must have raised a blister on the General s heart, and maddened De Griers, and driven Mlle. de Cominges almost to frenzy with the sight of this spoon dangling before her lips." Another factor is the circumstance that even when, overjoyed at winning, the Grandmother was distributing alms right and left, and taking every one to be a beggar, she again snapped out to the General that he was not going to be allowed any of her money which meant that the old lady had quite made up her mind on the point, and was sure of it. Yes, danger loomed ahead. All these thoughts passed through my mind during the few moments that, having left the old lady s rooms, I was ascending to my own room on the top storey. What most struck me was the fact that, though I had divined the chief, the stoutest, threads which united the various actors in the drama, I had, until now, been ignorant of the methods and secrets of the game. For Polina had never | The Gambler |
"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!" | Anne Shirley | recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the | "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below | be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue | must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all | child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through--that white place--what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that | astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue." The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through--that white place--what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated. "Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them." "Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, | happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because--well, what color would you call this?" She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding on the tints of ladies' tresses, but in this case there couldn't be much doubt. "It's red, ain't it?" he said. The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages. "Yes, it's red," she said resignedly. "Now you see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody could who has red hair. I don't mind the other things so much--the freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness. I can imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes. But I _cannot_ imagine that red hair away. I do my best. I think to myself," ?Now my hair is a glorious black, black as the raven's wing.' "But all the time I _know_ it is just plain red and it breaks my heart. It will be my lifelong sorrow. I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow but it wasn't red hair. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me?" "Well now, I'm afraid I can't," said Matthew, who was getting a little dizzy. He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic. "Well, whatever it was it must have been something nice because she was divinely beautiful. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?" "Well now, no, I haven't," confessed Matthew ingenuously. "I have, often. Which would you rather be if you had the choice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?" "Well now, I--I don't know exactly." "Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't make much real difference for it isn't likely I'll ever be either. It's certain I'll never be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says--oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!" That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue." The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through--that white place--what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated. "Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them." "Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. Now I'll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always say good night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think they like it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me." When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthew said: "We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over--" "Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted breathlessly, catching at his partially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see his gesture. "Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right." She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of a hill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was still clear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire rose up against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley and beyond a long, gently-rising slope with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From one to another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last they lingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly white with blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it, in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shining like a lamp of guidance and promise. "That's it, isn't it?" she said, pointing. Matthew slapped the reins on | angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says--oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!" That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue." The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk. "I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry," Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. "But we haven't very far to go now--only another mile." She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. "Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that place we came through--that white place--what was it?" "Well now, you must mean the Avenue," said Matthew after a few moments' profound reflection. "It is a kind of pretty place." "Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful. It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfies me here" "--she put one hand on her breast--" "it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?" "Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had."<|quote|>"I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But they shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!"</|quote|>They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. "That's Barry's pond," said Matthew. "Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?" Matthew ruminated. "Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them ugly white grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look of them." "Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do you think it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubs and lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call it Barry's pond?" "I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. Orchard Slope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind it you could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridge and round by the road, so it's near half a mile further." "Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--about my size." "He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana." "Oh!" with a long indrawing of breath. "What a perfectly lovely name!" "Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it, seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that. But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and they gave him the naming of her and he called her Diana." "I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born, then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight. I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining that perhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like a jack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open them for all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, if the bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jolly rumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendid there are so many things to | Anne Of Green Gables |
was his reply, after a short consideration. | No speaker | believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are | are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they | produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I | used to be I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike | would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say." "Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time." Such language was | 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 and gloom compared with the past a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit. Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say." "Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time." Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her. "Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny and that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now and now he does. Your complexion is so improved! and you have gained so much countenance! and your figure nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman." "Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously "Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those | 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 and gloom compared with the past a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit. Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say." "Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time." Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her. "Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny and that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now and now he does. Your complexion is so improved! and you have gained so much countenance! and your figure nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman." "Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously "Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle." "But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?" "I did and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther." "And I longed to do it but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel." "Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on his side." "She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing for the difference of the time | 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 and gloom compared with the past a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit. Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home" ". "I believe you are right, Fanny,"<|quote|>was his reply, after a short consideration.</|quote|>"I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare say." "Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time." Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her. "Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny and that is the long and the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now and now he does. Your complexion is so improved! and you have gained so much countenance! and your figure nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman." "Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and only added more seriously "Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle." "But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?" "I did and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther." "And I longed to do it but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to feel." "Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it | Mansfield Park |
* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. | No speaker | I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without | here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank | could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants | out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. | wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and | 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 boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's | 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 boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said, "Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" "He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell | 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 boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?"<|quote|>* * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience.</|quote|>"Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to | A Handful Of Dust |
"I didn't know it was as late as that." | Winnie-the-pooh | something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and | Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his | feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let | cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." So off Piglet trotted; and in the other direction went Pooh, with his jar of honey. It was a warm day, and he had a long way to go. He hadn't gone more than half-way when a sort of funny feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let me see," he thought, as he took his last lick of the inside of the jar, "where was I going? Ah, yes, Eeyore." He got up slowly. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He had eaten Eeyore's birthday present! "_Bother!_" said Pooh. "What _shall_ I do? I _must_ give him _something_." | 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 I give it too?" said Piglet. "From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan." "All right, then, I'll give him a balloon. I've got one left from my party. I'll go and get it now, shall I?" "That, Piglet, is a _very_ good idea. It is just what Eeyore wants to cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." So off Piglet trotted; and in the other direction went Pooh, with his jar of honey. It was a warm day, and he had a long way to go. He hadn't gone more than half-way when a sort of funny feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let me see," he thought, as he took his last lick of the inside of the jar, "where was I going? Ah, yes, Eeyore." He got up slowly. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He had eaten Eeyore's birthday present! "_Bother!_" said Pooh. "What _shall_ I do? I _must_ give him _something_." For a little while he couldn't think of anything. Then he thought: "Well, it's a very nice pot, even if there's no honey in it, and if I washed it clean, and got somebody to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it, Eeyore could keep things in it, which might be Useful." So, as he was just passing the Hundred Acre Wood, he went inside to call on Owl, who lived there. "Good morning, Owl," he said. "Good morning, Pooh," said Owl. "Many happy returns of Eeyore's birthday," said Pooh. "Oh, is that what it is?" "What are you giving him, | 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 I give it too?" said Piglet. "From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan." "All right, then, I'll give him a balloon. I've got one left from my party. I'll go and get it now, shall I?" "That, Piglet, is a _very_ good idea. It is just what Eeyore wants to cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." So off Piglet trotted; and in the other direction went Pooh, with his jar of honey. It was a warm day, and he had a long way to go. He hadn't gone more than half-way when a sort of funny feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let me see," he thought, as he took his last lick of the inside of the jar, "where was I going? Ah, yes, Eeyore." He got up slowly. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He had eaten Eeyore's birthday present! "_Bother!_" said Pooh. "What _shall_ I do? I _must_ give him _something_." For a little while he couldn't think of anything. Then he thought: "Well, it's a very nice pot, even if there's no honey in it, and if I washed it clean, and got somebody to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it, Eeyore could keep things in it, which might be Useful." So, as he was just passing the Hundred Acre Wood, he went inside to call on Owl, who lived there. "Good morning, Owl," he said. "Good morning, Pooh," said Owl. "Many happy returns of Eeyore's birthday," said Pooh. "Oh, is that what it is?" "What are you giving him, Owl?" "What are _you_ giving him, Pooh?" "I'm giving him a Useful Pot to Keep Things In, and I wanted to ask you----" "Is this it?" said Owl, taking it out of Pooh's paw. "Yes, and I wanted to ask you----" "Somebody has been keeping honey in it," said Owl. "You can keep _anything_ in it," said Pooh earnestly. "It's Very Useful like that. And I wanted to ask you----" "You ought to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it." "_That_ was what I wanted to ask you," said Pooh. "Because my spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places. Would _you_ write 'A Happy Birthday' on it for me?" "It's a nice pot," said Owl, looking at it all round. "Couldn't I give it too? From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan. Now I'll just wash it first, and then you can write on it." Well, he washed the pot out, and dried it, while Owl licked the end of his pencil, and wondered how to spell "birthday." "Can you read, Pooh?" he asked a little anxiously. "There's a notice about knocking and ringing | 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 I give it too?" said Piglet. "From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan." "All right, then, I'll give him a balloon. I've got one left from my party. I'll go and get it now, shall I?" "That, Piglet, is a _very_ good idea. It is just what Eeyore wants to cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." So off Piglet trotted; and in the other direction went Pooh, with his jar of honey. It was a warm day, and he had a long way to go. He hadn't gone more than half-way when a sort of funny feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let me see," he thought, as he took his last lick of the inside of the jar, "where was I going? Ah, yes, Eeyore." He got up slowly. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He had eaten Eeyore's birthday present! "_Bother!_" said Pooh. "What _shall_ I do? I _must_ give him _something_." For a little while he couldn't think of anything. Then he thought: "Well, it's a very nice pot, even if there's no honey in it, and if I washed it clean, and got somebody to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it, Eeyore could keep things in it, which might be Useful." So, as he was just passing the Hundred Acre Wood, he went inside to call on Owl, who lived there. "Good morning, Owl," he said. "Good morning, Pooh," said Owl. "Many happy returns of Eeyore's birthday," said Pooh. "Oh, is that what it is?" "What are you giving him, Owl?" "What are _you_ giving him, Pooh?" "I'm giving him a Useful Pot to Keep Things In, and I wanted to ask you----" "Is this it?" said Owl, taking it out of Pooh's paw. "Yes, and I wanted to ask you----" "Somebody has been keeping honey in it," said Owl. "You can keep _anything_ in it," said Pooh earnestly. "It's Very Useful like that. And I wanted to ask you----" "You ought to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it." "_That_ was what I wanted to ask you," said Pooh. "Because my spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places. Would _you_ write 'A Happy Birthday' on it for me?" "It's a nice pot," said Owl, looking at it all round. "Couldn't I give it too? From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan. Now I'll just wash it first, and then you can write on it." Well, he washed the pot out, and dried it, while Owl licked the end of his pencil, and wondered how to spell "birthday." "Can you read, Pooh?" he asked a little anxiously. "There's a notice about knocking and ringing outside my door, which Christopher Robin wrote. Could you read it?" "Christopher Robin told me what it said, and _then_ I could." "Well, I'll tell you what _this_ says, and then you'll be able to." So Owl wrote ... and this is what he wrote: HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY. Pooh looked on admiringly. "I'm just saying 'A Happy Birthday'," said Owl carelessly. "It's a nice long one," said Pooh, very much impressed by it. "Well, _actually_, of course, I'm saying 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh.' Naturally it takes a good deal of pencil to say a long thing like that." "Oh, I see," said Pooh. While all this was happening, Piglet had gone back to his own house to get Eeyore's balloon. He held it very tightly against himself, so that it shouldn't blow away, and he ran as fast as he could so as to get to Eeyore before Pooh did; for he thought that he would like to be the first one to give a present, just as if he had thought of it without being told by anybody. And running along, and thinking how pleased Eeyore would be, he didn't look where he was going ... and suddenly he put his foot in a rabbit hole, and fell down flat on his face. BANG!!!???***!!! Piglet lay there, wondering what had happened. At first he thought that the whole world had blown up; and then he thought that perhaps only the Forest part of it had; and then he thought that perhaps only _he_ had, and he was now alone in the moon or somewhere, and would never see Christopher Robin or Pooh or Eeyore again. And then he thought, "Well, even if I'm in the moon, I needn't be face downwards all the time," so he got cautiously up and looked about him. He was still in the Forest! "Well, that's funny," he thought. "I wonder what that bang was. I couldn't have made such a noise just falling down. And where's my balloon? And what's that small piece of damp rag doing?" It was the balloon! "Oh, dear!" said Piglet "Oh, dear, oh, dearie, dearie, dear! Well, it's too late now. I can't go back, and I haven't another balloon, and perhaps Eeyore doesn't _like_ balloons so _very_ much." So he trotted on, rather sadly now, and down he came to the | "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 I give it too?" said Piglet. "From both of us?" "No," said Pooh. "That would _not_ be a good plan." "All right, then, I'll give him a balloon. I've got one left from my party. I'll go and get it now, shall I?" "That, Piglet, is a _very_ good idea. It is just what Eeyore wants to cheer him up. Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." So off Piglet trotted; and in the other direction went Pooh, with his jar of honey. It was a warm day, and he had a long way to go. He hadn't gone more than half-way when a sort of funny feeling began to creep all over him. It began at the tip of his nose and trickled all through him and out at the soles of his feet. It was just as if somebody inside him were saying, "Now then, Pooh, time for a little something." "Dear, dear," said Pooh,<|quote|>"I didn't know it was as late as that."</|quote|>So he sat down and took the top off his jar of honey. "Lucky I brought this with me," he thought. "Many a bear going out on a warm day like this would never have thought of bringing a little something with him." And he began to eat. "Now let me see," he thought, as he took his last lick of the inside of the jar, "where was I going? Ah, yes, Eeyore." He got up slowly. And then, suddenly, he remembered. He had eaten Eeyore's birthday present! "_Bother!_" said Pooh. "What _shall_ I do? I _must_ give him _something_." For a little while he couldn't think of anything. Then he thought: "Well, it's a very nice pot, even if there's no honey in it, and if I washed it clean, and got somebody to write '_A Happy Birthday_' on it, Eeyore could keep things in it, which might be Useful." So, as he was just passing the Hundred Acre Wood, he went inside to call on Owl, who lived there. "Good morning, Owl," he said. "Good morning, Pooh," said Owl. "Many happy returns of Eeyore's birthday," said Pooh. "Oh, is that what it is?" "What are you giving him, Owl?" "What are _you_ giving him, Pooh?" "I'm giving him a Useful Pot to Keep Things In, and I wanted to ask you----" "Is this it?" said Owl, taking it out of Pooh's paw. "Yes, and I wanted to ask you----" "Somebody has been keeping honey in it," said Owl. "You can keep _anything_ in it," said Pooh earnestly. "It's Very Useful like that. And I wanted to | Winnie The Pooh |
"I have no hesitation in saying," | Mr. Elton | he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating | of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he | it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and | Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches | of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-- "Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; | "But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other." "Well, I cannot understand it." "That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other." Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-- "Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof | try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well." "Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband." This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them. "Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?" "Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet." "I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not." "Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair, and say," 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?' "and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with them very often." "He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him." "And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way!" "But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other." "Well, I cannot understand it." "That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other." Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-- "Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her. "I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father." She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming as you are!" "-- Emma laughed, and replied, "My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all." "Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it." "I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know," (recollecting herself,) "is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it." "Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!" "-- "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's." "But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!" "That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. | degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it-- "Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, "You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry."<|quote|>"I have no hesitation in saying,"</|quote|>replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it," (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), "he would consider it as the proudest moment of his life." After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was-- "There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days." "--Harriet's was-- "Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much." "I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury." Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma | Emma |
“Why—not exactly.” | Nick | once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver | added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she | threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret | have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me | I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s | old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give | his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made … I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train. I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the | the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?”<|quote|>“Why—not exactly.”</|quote|>“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had | The Great Gatsby |
whispered Mrs Lavington; | No speaker | "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little | sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, | don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send | always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has | 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 for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But | 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 for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say | 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 for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," said Uncle Josiah coldly, "and he must suffer for it." "But what's to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?" "Go back home and wait." "But I have no home, sir, now," sobbed Sally. "You'll want the cottage for some other man." "Go back home and wait." "But you'll try and fetch him back, sir?" "I don't know what I shall do yet," said the old man sternly. "I'm afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who's that?" There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door. Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring. "Well, what is it?" said Uncle Josiah. "If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you're to be at the magistrate's office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you." "Yes," said Uncle Josiah bitterly; "at the magistrate's office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?" Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look. "Try and find him," she whispered, "for my sake." "Try and find him!" he replied angrily, "I was willing to look over everything--to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false." "Yes, yes, and you will do so now--Josiah--brother." "I cannot," said the old man sternly. "He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THINKING BETTER OF IT. Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there. The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then-- The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships. Jem was the next to break the silence. "Thinking you'd like to go right away, Master Don?" "Yes, Jem." "So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally." "And no Uncle Josiah, Jem." "Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn't it?" "Glorious, Jem." "Mean to go, Master Don?" "What, and be a miserable coward? No." "But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir." "Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I've thought better of it." "And you won't go, sir?" "Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true." "So it would, sir. Now that's just how I felt. I says to myself, `Jem,' I says, `don't you stand it. What you've got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she'd find out your vally,' I says, `and be sorry for what she's said and done,' but I knew if I did she'd begin to crow and think she'd | 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 for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says,"<|quote|>whispered Mrs Lavington;</|quote|>"pray--pray fetch them back." Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look. But the old man's face only grew more hard. "I am afraid it must be true," he said. "Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot." "But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah." "Don't talk nonsense, Laura," said the old man angrily. "How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?" "No, no, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington; "it is only that he was hurt." "Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him." "Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back." "Have him brought back!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "What can I do? The law will have him brought back now." "What? Oh, brother, don't say that!" "I must tell you the truth," said Uncle Josiah sternly. "It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel's charge." "But what shall I do?" sobbed little Sally Wimble. "My Jem hadn't done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back." "Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman," | Don Lavington |
"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry." | Emma | is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied | of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most | therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for | with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come | sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself. "So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately | and all that she could see or imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove." "And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!" (with a little sigh of sentiment). "A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony." Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself. "So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure." "Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol," 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.' "Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, | much attached to him." "Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have." "Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How delightful!" When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good. Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him. The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother Mr. Suckling's seat;" "--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove." "And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!" (with a little sigh of sentiment). "A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony." Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself. "So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure." "Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol," 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.' "Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--" (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), "Your father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good." "My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now." "Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with." It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an _introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed! She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly. "I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long | first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother Mr. Suckling's seat;" "--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove." "And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!" (with a little sigh of sentiment). "A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony." Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself. "So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style." Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply, "When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties." "Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."<|quote|>"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry."</|quote|>"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. "I never heard any county but Surry called so." Emma was silenced. "My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?" "No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure." "Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been | Emma |
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. | No speaker | He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure | workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that | authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent | revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board | pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and | been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman | and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face, on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about. The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk. "This is the boy, your worship," said Mr. Bumble. The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up. "Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman. "This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear." Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account. "Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?" "He doats on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't. "And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman. "If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble. "And this man that's to be his master you, sir you'll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old gentleman. "When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye," said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would | reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman: fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, Beadle," said the other magistrate: laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room that they would starve him beat him kill him if they pleased rather than send him away with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, Beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?" "Yes. Hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion, he nodded significantly. "We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman: tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke. "I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins: "I hope the magistrates will not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child." "The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."<|quote|>That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.</|quote|>"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. | Oliver Twist |
"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?" | Thomas Gradgrind | horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, | to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary | and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the | Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, | a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away. "Girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and | sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir peremptorily Thomas Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away. "Girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed white. "Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse." "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth." Thus (and much more) Bitzer. "Now girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind. "You know what a horse is." She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both | Title: Hard Times Author: Charles Dickens BOOK THE FIRST _SOWING_ CHAPTER I THE ONE THING NEEDFUL "NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!" The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders, nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, all helped the emphasis. "In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!" The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim. CHAPTER II MURDERING THE INNOCENTS THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir peremptorily Thomas Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away. "Girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed white. "Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse." "Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth." Thus (and much more) Bitzer. "Now girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind. "You know what a horse is." She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all this time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both eyes at once, and so catching the light upon his quivering ends of lashes that they looked like the antenn of busy insects, put his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat down again. The third gentleman now stepped forth. A mighty man at cutting and drying, he was; a government officer; in his way (and in most other people's too), a professed pugilist; always in training, always with a system to force down the general throat like a bolus, always to be heard of at the bar of his little Public-office, ready to fight all England. To continue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius for coming up to the scratch, wherever and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly customer. He would go in and damage any subject whatever with his right, follow up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his opponent (he always fought All England) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. He was certain to knock the wind out of common sense, and render that unlucky adversary deaf to the call of time. And he had it in charge from high authority to bring about the great public-office Millennium, when Commissioners should reign upon earth. "Very well," said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and folding his arms. "That's a horse. Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would you paper a room with representations of horses?" After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, "Yes, sir!" Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir!" as the custom is, in these examinations. "Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. "You _must_ paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. "You must paper it," said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you like it or not. Don't tell _us_ you wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?" "I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality in fact? Do you?" "Yes, sir!" from one half. "No, sir!" from the other. "Of course no," said the gentleman, | measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind no, sir! In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words "boys and girls," for "sir," Thomas Gradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts. Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away. "Girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, "I don't know that girl. Who is that girl?" "Sissy Jupe, sir," explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying. "Sissy is not a name," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia." "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with another curtsey. "Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your father?" "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable calling with his hand. "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You mustn't tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, don't he?" "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir."<|quote|>"You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I dare say?"</|quote|>"Oh yes, sir." "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse." (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) "Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. "Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of him what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His short-cropped | Hard Times |
said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, | No speaker | state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very | with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written | strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. | her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If | hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so | failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage | I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since." She was gone. "It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. "Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me," he resumed, "here I am. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly: not relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering that I am at any time as dutifully and submissively treated by your daughter, as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you had better let it alone." Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself at all points. It was his amiable nature. "My dear Bounderby," Mr. Gradgrind began in reply. "Now, you'll excuse me," said Bounderby, "but I don't want to be too dear. That, to start with. When I begin to be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention is to come over me. I am not speaking to you politely; but, as you are aware, I am _not_ polite. If you like politeness, you know where to get it. You have your gentleman-friends, you know, and they'll serve you | St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end; but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off to Stone Lodge. "Now, Tom Gradgrind," said Bounderby, bursting into his father-in-law's room late at night; "here's a lady here Mrs. Sparsit you know Mrs. Sparsit who has something to say to you that will strike you dumb." "You have missed my letter!" exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition. "Missed your letter, sir!" bawled Bounderby. "The present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the state it's in now." "Bounderby,"<|quote|>said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance,</|quote|>"I speak of a very special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa." "Tom Gradgrind," replied Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, "I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, stand forward!" That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. "If you can't get it out, ma'am," said Bounderby, "leave _me_ to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthouse." "Indeed!" said Mr. Gradgrind. "Ah! Indeed!" cried Bounderby. "And in that conversation" "It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed." "You do? Perhaps," said Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, "you know where your daughter is at the present time!" "Undoubtedly. She is here." "Here?" "My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these loud out-breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, when I received her here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town, she ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet." Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman: "Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, ma'am!" "Sir," whispered Mrs. Sparsit, "my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is at present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking refuge in tears." (Which she did.) "Well, ma'am," said Bounderby, "without making any observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the best course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into bed." With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. "Now, as you showed me in | Hard Times |
"Nothing," | Mrs. Corney | contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was | scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" | from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or | very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in | "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. | over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? | nothing?" asked Monks, hesitating. "You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman; alone here; and unprotected." "Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither," submitted Mr. Bumble, in a voice tremulous with fear: "_I_ am here, my dear. And besides," said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to seed, as I may say; but he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little rousing; that's all." As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose. "You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; "and had better hold your tongue." "He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a lower tone," said Monks, grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?" "He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question. "I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!" He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman. "Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear your story." The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?" "You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I answer or not is another question." "Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. "Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron. "It is," replied Monks. "The other question?" "What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?" "Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush." With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, with great precipitation. "Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over it, if that had been my game." Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course. "If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. "Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides," replied Bumble, recoiling at the thought. Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible splash; and was gone. The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more freely. "There!" said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into its former position. "If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party." "By all means," observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity. "You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?" said Monks, with a threatening look. "I am not afraid | matron, "who had brought a child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying." "Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder, "Blood! How things come about!" "The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed." "In life?" asked Monks. "In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's sake." "She sold it," cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? Where? When? To whom? How long before?" "As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died." "Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was." "She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper." "Which contained" interposed Monks, stretching forward.<|quote|>"Nothing,"</|quote|>replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate." "For what?" demanded Monks. "In good time I'll tell you." said the woman. "I judge that she had kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge." "Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly. "_There_," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. "It has the word Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a year before the child was born. I found out that." "And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. "All," replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous dialogue. "I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; | Oliver Twist |
"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" | Fagin | patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. | ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, | nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be | Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he | old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, | in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!" "What now?" inquired Sikes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what | upon it." "So it is," said Mr. Sikes. "Worse luck!" A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed. "Fagin," said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; "is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?" "Yes," said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself. "Is it a bargain?" inquired Sikes. "Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened. "Then," said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, "let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, Bill?" asked the Jew eagerly. "Why," whispered Sikes, "as you cross the lawn" "Yes?" said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it. "Umph!" cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. "Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you." "As you like, my dear, as you like" replied the Jew. "Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby's?" "None," said Sikes. "Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the second you must find us." "A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it's a panel, eh?" "Never mind wot it is!" replied Sikes. "I want a boy, and he musn't be a big 'un. Lord!" said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, "if I'd only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!" "What now?" inquired Sikes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity. "Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" "I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. | Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck.<|quote|>"It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"</|quote|>"What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, | Oliver Twist |
"Quite so, not till Monday." | Mrs. Turton | is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised | preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said | asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was | -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due | not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is | with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this | miracle he built Tank." Professor Godbole's conversations frequently culminated in a cow. Fielding received this one in gloomy silence. In the afternoon he obtained a permit and saw Aziz, but found him unapproachable through misery. "You deserted me," was the only coherent remark. He went away to write his letter to Miss Quested. Even if it reached her, it would do no good, and probably the McBrydes would withhold it. Miss Quested did pull him up short. She was such a dry, sensible girl, and quite without malice: the last person in Chandrapore wrongfully to accuse an Indian. CHAPTER XX Although Miss Quested had not made herself popular with the English, she brought out all that was fine in their character. For a few hours an exalted emotion gushed forth, which the women felt even more keenly than the men, if not for so long. "What can we do for our sister?" was the only thought of Mesdames Callendar and Lesley, as they drove through the pelting heat to enquire. Mrs. Turton was the only visitor admitted to the sick-room. She came out ennobled by an unselfish sorrow. "She is my own darling girl," were the words she spoke, and then, remembering that she had called her "not pukka" and resented her engagement to young Heaslop, she began to cry. No one had ever seen the Collector's wife cry. Capable of tears yes, but always reserving them for some adequate occasion, and now it had come. Ah, why had they not all been kinder to the stranger, more patient, given her not only hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation. "Why don't one think more of other people?" sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion," the subaltern cried. "The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I | hospitality but their hearts? The tender core of the heart that is so seldom used they employed it for a little, under the stimulus of remorse. If all is over (as Major Callendar implied), well, all is over, and nothing can be done, but they retained some responsibility in her grievous wrong that they couldn't define. If she wasn't one of them, they ought to have made her one, and they could never do that now, she had passed beyond their invitation. "Why don't one think more of other people?" sighed pleasure-loving Miss Derek. These regrets only lasted in their pure form for a few hours. Before sunset, other considerations adulterated them, and the sense of guilt (so strangely connected with our first sight of any suffering) had begun to wear away. People drove into the club with studious calm the jog-trot of country gentlefolk between green hedgerows, for the natives must not suspect that they were agitated. They exchanged the usual drinks, but everything tasted different, and then they looked out at the palisade of cactuses stabbing the purple throat of the sky; they realized that they were thousands of miles from any scenery that they understood. The club was fuller than usual, and several parents had brought their children into the rooms reserved for adults, which gave the air of the Residency at Lucknow. One young mother a brainless but most beautiful girl sat on a low ottoman in the smoking-room with her baby in her arms; her husband was away in the district, and she dared not return to her bungalow in case the "niggers attacked." The wife of a small railway official, she was generally snubbed; but this evening, with her abundant figure and masses of corn-gold hair, she symbolized all that is worth fighting and dying for; more permanent a symbol, perhaps, than poor Adela. "Don't worry, Mrs. Blakiston, those drums are only Mohurram," the men would tell her. "Then they've started," she moaned, clasping the infant and rather wishing he would not blow bubbles down his chin at such a moment as this. "No, of course not, and anyhow, they're not coming to the club." "And they're not coming to the Burra Sahib's bungalow either, my dear, and that's where you and your baby'll sleep tonight," answered Mrs. Turton, towering by her side like Pallas Athene, and determining in the future not to be such a snob. The Collector clapped his hands for silence. He was much calmer than when he had flown out at Fielding. He was indeed always calmer when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week."<|quote|>"Quite so, not till Monday."</|quote|>"Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, | A Passage To India |
she cried. | No speaker | "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of | Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." | When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to | of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host | it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." | That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter | flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?" "I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." "They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she answered. "You gallop with a loose rein." "Pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "I shall write it in my diary to-night." "What?" "That a burnt child loves the fire." "I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." "You use them for everything, except flight." "Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." "You have a rival." "Who?" He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphinxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." "That would be a | he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race,"<|quote|>she cried.</|quote|>"It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"Much farther! Yer as good as there," | Noah Claypole | perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing | and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! | as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, | to his companion, "Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue. "Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?" rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice." As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. "Where | circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion. Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion, "Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue. "Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?" rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice." As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. "Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?" she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards. "How should I know?" replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking. "Near, I hope," said Charlotte. "No, not near," replied Mr. Claypole. "There! Not near; so don't think it." "Why not?" "When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why or because either," replied Mr. Claypole with dignity. "Well, you needn't be so cross," said his companion. "A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at | Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up. CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention. They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age, looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion. Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion, "Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue. "Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?" rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice." As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. "Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?" she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards. "How should I know?" replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking. "Near, I hope," said Charlotte. "No, not near," replied Mr. Claypole. "There! Not near; so don't think it." "Why not?" "When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why or because either," replied Mr. Claypole with dignity. "Well, you needn't be so cross," said his companion. "A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on," said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. "No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; for if we hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer'd have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool." "I know I ain't as cunning as you are," replied Charlotte; "but don't put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way." "Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did," said Mr. Claypole. "I took it for you, Noah, dear," rejoined Charlotte. "Did I keep it?" asked Mr. Claypole. "No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so | very strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's proposition was carried unanimously. "I should like," he said, "to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not, you must determine for yourselves." "I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine," said the doctor. "We must put it to the vote," replied Mr. Brownlow, "who may he be?" "That lady's son, and this young lady's very old friend," said the doctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at her niece. Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee. "We stay in town, of course," said Mrs. Maylie, "while there remains the slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains." "Good!" rejoined Mr. Brownlow. "And as I see on the faces about me, a disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to corroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments already quite numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world." With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up. CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention. They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age, looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion. Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion, "Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue. "Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?" rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice." As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. "Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?" she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards. "How should I know?" replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking. "Near, I hope," said Charlotte. "No, not near," replied Mr. Claypole. "There! Not near; so don't think it." "Why not?" "When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why or because either," replied Mr. Claypole with dignity. "Well, you needn't be so cross," said his companion. "A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on," said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. "No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; for if we hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer'd have been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool." "I know I ain't as cunning as you are," replied Charlotte; "but don't put all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have been if I had been, any way." "Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did," said Mr. Claypole. "I took it for you, Noah, dear," rejoined Charlotte. "Did I keep it?" asked Mr. Claypole. "No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are," said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through his. This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole's habit to repose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her: which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very lovingly together. In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that London began in earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, and consequently the most to be avoided, he crossed into Saint John's Road, and was soon deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray's Inn Lane and Smithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst that improvement has left in the midst of London. Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night. "So give us the bundle," said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman's shoulders, and slinging it over his own; "and don't yer speak, except when yer spoke to. What's the name of the house t-h-r three what?" "Cripples," said Charlotte. "Three Cripples," repeated Noah, "and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep close at my heels, and come along." With these injunctions, he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion. There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the counter, was | the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the world." With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up. CHAPTER XLII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history should bestow some attention. They were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and female: for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age, looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an impatient jerk of the head: as if reproaching her tardiness, and urging her to greater exertion. Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called impatiently to his companion, "Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte." "It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost breathless with fatigue. "Heavy! What are yer talking about? What are yer made for?" rejoined the male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!" "Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.<|quote|>"Much farther! Yer as good as there,"</|quote|>said the long-legged tramper, pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London." "They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly. "Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole; for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer notice." As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side. "Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?" she asked, after they had walked a few hundred yards. "How should I know?" replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably impaired by walking. "Near, I hope," said Charlotte. "No, not near," replied Mr. Claypole. "There! Not near; so don't think it." "Why not?" "When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without any why or because either," replied Mr. Claypole with dignity. "Well, you needn't be so cross," said his companion. "A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very first public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up after us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on," said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone. "No! I shall go and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; | Oliver Twist |
interrupted Mrs. Bumble. | No speaker | that" "You had better bid,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"I have heard enough, already, | "Something that she wore. Something that" "You had better bid,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you | 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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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 | 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. "Yes." "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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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 | 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. "Yes." "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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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 | 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. "Yes." "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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the extreme. "When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone." "Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "No sick wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by possibility, understand?" "Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. _I_ stood alone beside the body when death came over it." "Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on." "She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a child into the world | 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. "Yes." "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,"<|quote|>interrupted Mrs. Bumble.</|quote|>"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 | Oliver Twist |
She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness. | No speaker | Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know | propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the | John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm | at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of | his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may call--take his stand!” Lord John welcomed this assurance. “If I know him he’ll take it splendidly!” Mr. Bender’s attention was genial, though rather more detached. “And what--while he’s about it--will he take it particularly _on?_” “Oh, we’ve plenty of things, thank heaven,” said Lady Sandgate, “for a man in Theign’s position to hold fast by!” Lord John freely confirmed it. “Scores and scores--rather! And I will say for us that, with the rotten way things seem going, the fact may soon become a real convenience.” Mr. Bender seemed struck--and not unsympathetic. “I see | “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may call--take his stand!” Lord John welcomed this assurance. “If I know him he’ll take it splendidly!” Mr. Bender’s attention was genial, though rather more detached. “And what--while he’s about it--will he take it particularly _on?_” “Oh, we’ve plenty of things, thank heaven,” said Lady Sandgate, “for a man in Theign’s position to hold fast by!” Lord John freely confirmed it. “Scores and scores--rather! And I will say for us that, with the rotten way things seem going, the fact may soon become a real convenience.” Mr. Bender seemed struck--and not unsympathetic. “I see that your system would be rather a fraud if you hadn’t pretty well fixed _that!_” Lady Sandgate spoke as one at present none the less substantially warned and convinced. “It doesn’t, however, alter the fact that we’ve thus in our ears the first growl of an outcry.” “Ah,” Lord John concurred, “we’ve unmistakably the first growl of an outcry!” Mr. Bender’s judgment on the matter paused at sight of Lord Theign, introduced and announced, as Lord John spoke, by Gotch; but with the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of the most eminent figure in the group might have been held in itself to testify to some such truth; in the sense at least that a certain conscious radiance, a gathered light of battle in his lordship’s aspect would have been explained by his having taken the full measure--an inner success with which he glowed--of some high provocation. He was flushed, but he bore it as the ensign of his house; he was so admirably, vividly dressed, for the morning hour and for his journey, that he | striking criticism, or at least animadversion, of this morning, will have blown on his flame of bravado.” Inevitably a student of character, Mr. Bender rose to the occasion. “Yes, I guess he’s pretty mad.” “They’ve imputed to him” --Hugh but wanted to abound in that sense-- “an intention of which after all he isn’t guilty.” “So that” --his listener glowed with interested optimism-- “if they don’t look out, if they impute it to him again, I guess he’ll just go and be guilty!” Hugh might at this moment have shown to an initiated eye as fairly elated by the sense of producing something of the effect he had hoped. “You entertain the fond vision of lashing them up to that mistake, oh fisher in troubled waters?” And then with a finer art, as his companion, expansively bright but crudely acute, eyed him in turn as if to sound _him_: “The strongest thing in such a type--one does make out--is his resentment of a liberty taken; and the most natural furthermore is quite that he should feel almost anything you do take uninvited from the groaning board of his banquet of life to _be_ such a liberty.” Mr. Bender participated thus at his perceptive ease in the exposed aristocratic illusion. “Yes, I guess he has always lived as he likes, the way those of you who have got things fixed for them _do_, over here; and to have to quit it on account of unpleasant remark--” But he gave up thoughtfully trying to express what this must be; reduced to the mere synthetic interjection “My!” “That’s it, Mr. Bender,” Hugh said for the consecration of such a moral; “he won’t quit it without a hard struggle.” Mr. Bender hereupon at last gave himself quite gaily away as to his high calculation of impunity. “Well, I guess he won’t struggle too hard for me to hold on to him if I _want_ to!” “In the thick of the conflict then, however that may be,” Hugh returned, “don’t forget what I’ve urged on you--the claim of our desolate country.” But his friend had an answer to this. “My natural interest, Mr. Crimble--considering what I do for it--is in the claim of ours. But I wish you were on my side!” “Not so much,” Hugh hungrily and truthfully laughed, “as I wish you were on mine!” Decidedly, none the less, he had to go. “Good-bye--for another look here!” He reached the doorway of the second room, where, however, his companion, freshly alert at this, stayed him by a gesture. “How much is she really worth?” “‘She’?” Hugh, staring a moment, was miles at sea. “Lady Sandgate?” “Her great-grandmother.” A responsible answer was prevented--the butler was again with them; he had opened wide the other door and he named to Mr. Bender the personage under his convoy. “Lord John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may call--take his stand!” Lord John welcomed this assurance. “If I know him he’ll take it splendidly!” Mr. Bender’s attention was genial, though rather more detached. “And what--while he’s about it--will he take it particularly _on?_” “Oh, we’ve plenty of things, thank heaven,” said Lady Sandgate, “for a man in Theign’s position to hold fast by!” Lord John freely confirmed it. “Scores and scores--rather! And I will say for us that, with the rotten way things seem going, the fact may soon become a real convenience.” Mr. Bender seemed struck--and not unsympathetic. “I see that your system would be rather a fraud if you hadn’t pretty well fixed _that!_” Lady Sandgate spoke as one at present none the less substantially warned and convinced. “It doesn’t, however, alter the fact that we’ve thus in our ears the first growl of an outcry.” “Ah,” Lord John concurred, “we’ve unmistakably the first growl of an outcry!” Mr. Bender’s judgment on the matter paused at sight of Lord Theign, introduced and announced, as Lord John spoke, by Gotch; but with the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of the most eminent figure in the group might have been held in itself to testify to some such truth; in the sense at least that a certain conscious radiance, a gathered light of battle in his lordship’s aspect would have been explained by his having taken the full measure--an inner success with which he glowed--of some high provocation. He was flushed, but he bore it as the ensign of his house; he was so admirably, vividly dressed, for the morning hour and for his journey, that he shone as with the armour of a knight; and the whole effect of him, from head to foot, with every jerk of his unconcern and every flash of his ease, was to call attention to his being utterly unshaken and knowing perfectly what he was about. It was at this happy pitch that he replied to the prime upsetter of his peace. “I’m afraid I don’t know what anything means to _you_, Mr. Bender--but it’s exactly to find out that I’ve asked you, with our friend John, kindly to meet me here. For a very brief conference, dear lady, by your good leave,” he went on to Lady Sandgate; “at which I’m only too pleased that you yourself should assist. The ‘first growl’ of any outcry, I may mention to you all, affects me no more than the last will----!” “So I’m delighted to gather” --Lady Sandgate took him straight up-- “that you don’t let go your inestimable Cure.” He at first quite stared superior-- “‘Let go’?” --but then treated it with a lighter touch. “Upon my honour I might, you know--that dose of the daily press has made me feel so fit! I arrive at any rate,” he pursued to the others and in particular to Mr. Bender, “I arrive with my decision taken--which I’ve thought may perhaps interest you. If that tuppeny rot _is_ an attempt at an outcry I simply nip it in the bud.” Lord John rejoicingly approved. “Absolutely the only way--with the least self-respect--to treat it!” Lady Sandgate, on the other hand, sounded a sceptical note. “But are you sure it’s so easy, Theign, to hush up a _real_ noise?” “It ain’t what I’d call a real one, Lady Sandgate,” Mr. Bender said; “you can generally distinguish a real one from the squeak of two or three mice! But granted mice do affect you, Lord Theign, it will interest me to hear what sort of a trap--by what you say--you propose to set for them.” “You must allow me to measure, myself, Mr. Bender,” his lordship replied, “the importance of a gross freedom publicly used with my absolutely personal proceedings and affairs; to the cause and origin of any definite report of which--in such circles!--I’m afraid I rather wonder if you yourself can’t give me a clue.” It took Mr. Bender a minute to do justice to these stately remarks. “You rather wonder if I’ve | John!” Hugh caught this from the inner threshold, and it gave him his escape. “Oh, ask _that_ friend!” With which he sought the further passage to the staircase and street, while Lord John arrived in charge of Mr. Gotch, who, having remarked to the two occupants of the front drawing-room that her ladyship would come, left them together. IV “Then Theign’s not yet here!” Lord John had to resign himself as he greeted his American ally. “But he told me I should find you.” “He has kept me waiting,” that gentleman returned-- “but what’s the matter with him anyway?” “The matter with him” --Lord John treated such ignorance as irritating-- “must of course be this beastly thing in the ‘Journal.’” Mr. Bender proclaimed, on the other hand, his incapacity to seize such connections. “What’s the matter with the beastly thing?” “Why, aren’t you aware that the stiffest bit of it is a regular dig at you?” “If you call _that_ a regular dig you can’t have had much experience of the Papers. I’ve known them to dig much deeper.” “I’ve had _no_ experience of such horrid attacks, thank goodness; but do you mean to say,” asked Lord John with the surprise of his own delicacy, “that you don’t unpleasantly feel it?” “Feel it where, my dear sir?” “Why, God bless me, such impertinence, everywhere!” “All over me at once?” --Mr. Bender took refuge in easy humour. “Well, I’m a large man--so when I want to feel so much I look out for something good. But what, if he suffers from the blot on his ermine--ain’t that what you wear?--does our friend propose to do about it?” Lord John had a demur, which was immediately followed by the apprehension of support in his uncertainty. Lady Sandgate was before them, having reached them through the other room, and to her he at once referred the question. “What _will_ Theign propose, do you think, Lady Sandgate, to do about it?”<|quote|>She breathed both her hospitality and her vagueness.</|quote|>“To ‘do’----?” “Don’t you know about the thing in the ‘Journal’--awfully offensive all round?” “There’d be even a little pinch for _you_ in it,” Mr. Bender said to her-- “if you were bent on fitting the shoe!” Well, she met it all as gaily as was compatible with a firm look at her elder guest while she took her place with them. “Oh, the shoes of such monsters as that are much too big for poor _me!_” But she was more specific for Lord John. “I know only what Grace has just told me; but since it’s a question of footgear dear Theign will certainly--what you may call--take his stand!” Lord John welcomed this assurance. “If I know him he’ll take it splendidly!” Mr. Bender’s attention was genial, though rather more detached. “And what--while he’s about it--will he take it particularly _on?_” “Oh, we’ve plenty of things, thank heaven,” said Lady Sandgate, “for a man in Theign’s position to hold fast by!” Lord John freely confirmed it. “Scores and scores--rather! And I will say for us that, with the rotten way things seem going, the fact may soon become a real convenience.” Mr. Bender seemed struck--and not unsympathetic. “I see that your system would be rather a fraud if you hadn’t pretty well fixed _that!_” Lady Sandgate spoke as one at present none the less substantially warned and convinced. “It doesn’t, however, alter the fact that we’ve thus in our ears the first growl of an outcry.” “Ah,” Lord John concurred, “we’ve unmistakably the first growl of an outcry!” Mr. Bender’s judgment on the matter paused at sight of Lord Theign, introduced and announced, as Lord John spoke, by Gotch; but with the result of his addressing directly the person so presenting himself. “Why, they tell me that what this means, Lord Theign, is the first growl of an outcry!” The appearance of the most eminent figure in the group might have been held in itself to testify to some such truth; in the sense at least that a certain conscious radiance, a gathered light of battle in his lordship’s aspect would have been explained by his having taken the full measure--an inner success with which he glowed--of some high provocation. He was flushed, but he bore it as the ensign of his house; he was so admirably, vividly dressed, for the morning hour and for his journey, that he shone as with the armour of a knight; and the whole effect of him, from head to foot, with every jerk of his unconcern and every flash of his ease, was to call attention to his being utterly unshaken and knowing perfectly what he was about. It was at this happy pitch that he replied to the prime upsetter of his peace. “I’m afraid I don’t know what anything means to _you_, Mr. Bender--but it’s exactly to find out that I’ve asked you, with our friend John, kindly to meet me here. For a very brief conference, dear lady, by your good leave,” he went on to Lady Sandgate; “at which I’m only too pleased that you yourself should assist. The ‘first growl’ of any outcry, I may mention to you all, affects me no more than the last will----!” “So I’m delighted to gather” --Lady Sandgate took him straight up-- “that you don’t let go your inestimable Cure.” He at first quite stared superior-- “‘Let go’?” --but then treated it with a lighter touch. “Upon my | The Outcry |
"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?" | Mr. Gordon | TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant | bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which | them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's | Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see | days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the | time the sounds from the camp, which had been heard plainly on the night wind, ceased, and for the first time Don questioned Jem as to his injury. "Where are you hurt, Jem?" "Shoulder," said that worthy, laconically. "Again?" "No; not again." "But I mean when the gun went off." "In my head, Mas' Don." "Ah! We might stop now. Let me bind it up for you." "No, no; it don't bleed," replied Jem, gruffly. "I mean hurt inside my head, 'cause I could be such a stoopid as to let this here gun fall." "Then you are not wounded?" "Not a bit, my lad; and if you'll stop now, I think I'll try and load again." But Ngati insisted on pushing on, and kept up a steady walk right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway. It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit. Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then | and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way. "We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us," whispered Don. "Can't do better," whispered back Jem. "Wait just a moment till I get this strap o' the gun over my shoulder. It's awkward to carry both gun and spear." "Wait till we get farther away, Jem." _Crash_! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks. Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect. "Run, Mas' Don; never mind me." "Are you hurt?" "Dunno." Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts' lair, and catching Don's hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more. Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat. Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning "Hssh!" from their leader. As they passed on they listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but for awhile there were none; the fact being that at the sound of the shot the convicts believed that they were attacked, and rushing out, they made for the mountain. But as no further shots were heard, they grew more bold, and, after waiting listening for awhile, they stole back to the shed that should have been occupied by Don and his friends; where, finding them gone, they hurried into their own place, found that the arms were taken, and, setting up a shout, dashed off in pursuit. The shout sent a shiver through Don and Jem, for it sounded terribly near, and they hurried on close to the heels of Ngati, forgetful for the moment of the fact that they were armed, and their pursuers were weaponless. After a time the sounds from the camp, which had been heard plainly on the night wind, ceased, and for the first time Don questioned Jem as to his injury. "Where are you hurt, Jem?" "Shoulder," said that worthy, laconically. "Again?" "No; not again." "But I mean when the gun went off." "In my head, Mas' Don." "Ah! We might stop now. Let me bind it up for you." "No, no; it don't bleed," replied Jem, gruffly. "I mean hurt inside my head, 'cause I could be such a stoopid as to let this here gun fall." "Then you are not wounded?" "Not a bit, my lad; and if you'll stop now, I think I'll try and load again." But Ngati insisted on pushing on, and kept up a steady walk right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway. It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit. Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination. He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds' notes fell upon the ear. "It must have been fancy," he thought. "Where is Jem?" He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been the means of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear. One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real. "I'll go and find some one," he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling. The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on. "How absurd!" he said, with a faint laugh. "A moment's giddiness. That's all." He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream. In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to | right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway. It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit. Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again. Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on. They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant. "There's only one thing I'm afraid of, Mas' Don," said Jem; "and that is that those convicts will smell us out." But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori's thoughts in bringing them there. CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. DON HAS A HEADACHE.<|quote|>"Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?"</|quote|>said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. "Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It's enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in." "I cannot leave our friend," said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati's arm. "What, the savage!" said the farmer, rubbing his ear. "Well, we--oh, if he's your friend, that's enough." They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions. Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold. The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing. The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night. His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris' _pah_, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem's fancies as to why they were being kept. Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts' lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place. It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions. And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts' home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around. An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and | Don Lavington |
"he understands." | Jem Wimble | all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything | "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them | kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to | Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. | said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to | Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the | we thought, my lad, but we couldn't find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns." "I saw them, Jem." "You see 'em?" "Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn't be sure." "Ah, well, they found us out, and they've got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful." Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha." CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. DON SPEAKS OUT. A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, | for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati," --he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- "bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem;<|quote|>"he understands."</|quote|>"Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' | Don Lavington |
“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.” | Sybylla Melvyn | her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, | a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In | pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you | to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him | in that light. I’m not seventeen.” “Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I am glad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?” “For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of | ways, Julius. It grieves me to see she makes no effort to acquire a ladylike demeanour,” said grannie. Mr Hawden had come off second-best, so he arose from his half-finished meal and stamped out, banging the door after him, and muttering something about “a disgustingly spoilt and petted tomboy” , “a hideous barbarian” , and so forth. Uncle Jay-Jay related that story to everyone, dwelling with great delight upon the fact that Frank Hawden was forced to walk four miles in the heat and dust. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forced to give Ear When alone I confessed to aunt Helen that Harold had accompanied me to within a short distance of home. She did not smile as usual, but looked very grave, and, drawing me in front of her, said: “Sybylla, do you know what you are doing? Do you love Harry Beecham? Do you mean to marry him?” “Aunt Helen, what a question to ask! I never dreamt of such a thing. He has never spoken a word of love to me. Marriage! I am sure he does not for an instant think of me in that light. I’m not seventeen.” “Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I am glad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?” “For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.” “But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am | come to break so simple. The boss will rise the devil of a shine, and say you might have been killed.” This put a different complexion on things. I knew Joe Slocombe could mend the harness with little trouble, as it was because he was what uncle Jay-Jay termed a “handy divil” at saddlery that he was retained at Caddagat. I said carelessly: “If you mend the harness at once, Joe, uncle Julius need not be bothered about it. As it happened, there is no harm done, and I won’t mention the matter.” “Thank you, miss,” he said eagerly. “I’ll mend it at once.” Now that I had that piece of business so luckily disposed of, I did not feel the least nervous about meeting grannie. I took the mail in my arms and entered the dining-room, chirping pleasantly: “Grannie, I’m such a good mail-boy. I have heaps of letters, and did not forget one of your commissions.” “I don’t want to hear that now,” she said, drawing her dear old mouth into a straight line, which told me I was not going to palm things off as easily as I thought. “I want a reason for your conduct this afternoon.” “Explain what, grannie?” I inquired. “None of that pretence! Not only have you been most outrageously insulting to Mr Hawden when I sent him with you, but you also deliberately and wilfully disobeyed me.” Uncle Julius listened attentively, and Hawden looked at me with such a leer of triumph that my fingers tingled to smack his cars. Turning to my grandmother, I said distinctly and cuttingly: “Grannie, I did not intentionally disobey you. Disobedience never entered my head. I hate that thing. His presence was detestable to me. When he got out at the gate I could not resist the impulse to drive off and leave him there. He looked such a complete jackdaw that you would have laughed yourself to see him.” “Dear, oh dear! You wicked hussy, what will become of you!” And grannie shook her head, trying to look stern, and hiding a smile in her serviette. “Your manners are not improving, Sybylla. I fear you must be incorrigible,” said aunt Helen. When uncle Jay-Jay heard the whole particulars of the affair, he lay back in his chair and laughed fit to kill himself. “You ought to be ashamed to always encourage her in her tomboyish ways, Julius. It grieves me to see she makes no effort to acquire a ladylike demeanour,” said grannie. Mr Hawden had come off second-best, so he arose from his half-finished meal and stamped out, banging the door after him, and muttering something about “a disgustingly spoilt and petted tomboy” , “a hideous barbarian” , and so forth. Uncle Jay-Jay related that story to everyone, dwelling with great delight upon the fact that Frank Hawden was forced to walk four miles in the heat and dust. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forced to give Ear When alone I confessed to aunt Helen that Harold had accompanied me to within a short distance of home. She did not smile as usual, but looked very grave, and, drawing me in front of her, said: “Sybylla, do you know what you are doing? Do you love Harry Beecham? Do you mean to marry him?” “Aunt Helen, what a question to ask! I never dreamt of such a thing. He has never spoken a word of love to me. Marriage! I am sure he does not for an instant think of me in that light. I’m not seventeen.” “Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I am glad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?” “For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.” “But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.” “Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen. CHAPTER NINETEEN The 9th of November 1896 The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat. The holding of these races was an elderly institution, and was followed at night by a servants’ ball given by one of the squatters. Last year it had been Beecham’s ball, the year before Bossier’s, and this year it was to take place in the woolshed of James Grant of Yabtree. Our two girls, the gardener, and Joe Slocombe the groom, were to be present, as also were all the other employees about. Nearly every one in the district—masters and men—attended the races. We were going, Frank Hawden volunteering to stay and mind the house. We started at nine o’clock. Grannie and uncle Boss sat in the front seat of the buggy, and aunt Helen and I occupied the back. Uncle always drove at a good round gallop. His idea was to have good horses, not donkeys, and not to spare them, as there were plenty more to be had any day. On this morning he went off at his usual pace. Grannie urged as remonstrance that the dust was fearful when going at that rate. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, “Go it, Mr Bossier! Well done, uncle Jay-Jay! Hurrah for Clancy!” Uncle first said he was glad to see I had the spirit of an Australian, and then threatened to put my nose above my chin if I failed to behave properly. Grannie remarked that I might have the spirit of an Australian, but I had by no means the manners of a lady; while aunt Helen ventured a wish that I might expend all my superfluous spirits on the way, so that I would be enabled to deport myself with a little decorum when arrived at the racecourse. We went at a great pace; lizards and goannas scampered out of the way in dozens, and, clambering trees, eyed us unblinkingly as we passed. Did we see a person or vehicle a tiny | “Explain what, grannie?” I inquired. “None of that pretence! Not only have you been most outrageously insulting to Mr Hawden when I sent him with you, but you also deliberately and wilfully disobeyed me.” Uncle Julius listened attentively, and Hawden looked at me with such a leer of triumph that my fingers tingled to smack his cars. Turning to my grandmother, I said distinctly and cuttingly: “Grannie, I did not intentionally disobey you. Disobedience never entered my head. I hate that thing. His presence was detestable to me. When he got out at the gate I could not resist the impulse to drive off and leave him there. He looked such a complete jackdaw that you would have laughed yourself to see him.” “Dear, oh dear! You wicked hussy, what will become of you!” And grannie shook her head, trying to look stern, and hiding a smile in her serviette. “Your manners are not improving, Sybylla. I fear you must be incorrigible,” said aunt Helen. When uncle Jay-Jay heard the whole particulars of the affair, he lay back in his chair and laughed fit to kill himself. “You ought to be ashamed to always encourage her in her tomboyish ways, Julius. It grieves me to see she makes no effort to acquire a ladylike demeanour,” said grannie. Mr Hawden had come off second-best, so he arose from his half-finished meal and stamped out, banging the door after him, and muttering something about “a disgustingly spoilt and petted tomboy” , “a hideous barbarian” , and so forth. Uncle Jay-Jay related that story to everyone, dwelling with great delight upon the fact that Frank Hawden was forced to walk four miles in the heat and dust. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN As Short as I Wish had been the Majority of Sermons to which I have been Forced to give Ear When alone I confessed to aunt Helen that Harold had accompanied me to within a short distance of home. She did not smile as usual, but looked very grave, and, drawing me in front of her, said: “Sybylla, do you know what you are doing? Do you love Harry Beecham? Do you mean to marry him?” “Aunt Helen, what a question to ask! I never dreamt of such a thing. He has never spoken a word of love to me. Marriage! I am sure he does not for an instant think of me in that light. I’m not seventeen.” “Yes, you are young, but some people’s age cannot be reckoned by years. I am glad to see you have developed a certain amount of half-real and half-assumed youthfulness lately, but when the novelty of your present life wears away, your old mature nature will be there, so it is of no use feigning childishness. Harold Beecham is not given to speech—action with him is the same thing. Can you look at me straight, Sybylla, and say that Harold has not extended you something more than common politeness?” Had aunt Helen put that question to me a day before, I would have blushed and felt guilty. But today not so. The words of the jackeroo the night before had struck home. “A hideous barbarian” , he had called me, and it seemed to me he had spoken the truth. My life had been so pleasant lately that I had overlooked this fact, but now it returned to sting with redoubled bitterness. I had no lovable qualities to win for me the love of my fellows, which I so much desired. I returned aunt Helen a gaze as steady as her own, and said bitterly:<|quote|>“Aunt Helen, I can truly say he has never, and will never extend to me more than common politeness. Neither will any other man. Surely you know enough of masculine human nature to see there is no danger of a man losing his heart to a plain woman like me. Love in fancy and song is a pretty myth, embracing unity of souls, congeniality of tastes, and such like commodities. In workaday reality it is the lowest of passions, which is set alight by the most artistic nose and mouth, and it matters not if its object is vile, low, or brainless to idiocy, so long as it has these attributes.”</|quote|>“Sybylla, Sybylla,” said auntie sadly, as if to herself. “In the first flush of girlhood, and so bitter. Why is this?” “Because I have been cursed with the power of seeing, thinking, and, worse than all, feeling, and branded with the stinging affliction of ugliness,” I replied. “Now, Sybylla, you are going to think of yourself again. Something has put you out. Be sensible for once in a way. What you have said of men’s love may be true in a sense, but it is not always so, and Harry is not that kind of man. I have known him all his life, and understand him, and feel sure he loves you truly. Tell me plainly, do you intend to accept him?” “Intend to accept him!” I echoed. “I haven’t once thought of such a possibility. I never mean to marry anyone.” “Don’t you care for Harold? Just a little? Think.” “How could I care for him?” “For many, many reasons. He is young, and very kind and gentle. He is one of the biggest and finest-looking men you could find. He is a man whom no one could despise, for he has nothing despicable about him. But, best of all, he is true, and that, I think, is the bedrock of all virtues.” “But he is so conceited,” I remarked. “That does not make him any the less lovable. I know another young person very conceited, and it does not prevent me from loving her dearly,” here aunt Helen smiled affectionately at me. “What you complain of in Harold will wear off presently—life has been very easy for him so far, you see.” “But, auntie, I’m sure he thinks he could have any girl for the asking.” “Well, he has a great number to choose from, for they all like him.” “Yes, just for his money,” I said scornfully. “But I’ll surprise him if he thinks he can get me for the asking.” “Sybylla, never flirt. To play with a man’s heart, I think, is one of the most horribly unwomanly actions our sex can be guilty of.” “I would scorn to flirt with any man,” I returned with vigour. “Play with a man’s heart! You’d really think they had such a thing, aunt Helen, to hear you talk. Hurt their vanity for a few days is the most a woman could do with any of them. I am sick of this preach, preach about playing with men’s hearts. It is an old fable which should have been abolished long ago. It does not matter how a woman is played with.” “Sybylla, you talk at random. The shortcomings of men are no excuse for you to be unwomanly,” said aunt Helen. CHAPTER NINETEEN The 9th of November 1896 The Prince of Wales’s birthday up the country was celebrated as usual thereaway by the annual horse-races on the Wyambeet course, about fourteen miles from Caddagat. The holding of these races was an elderly | My Brilliant Career |
"I guess I like them." | An Old Man | Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where | "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to | come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around | was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back | at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through | cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?" "Way off there where the mountain starts." "It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. | hard trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing smoothly and regularly. "Hey!" the owner of the bottle shouted. "Whose wine is that?" The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp, made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the wine-skin sadly. We passed through a town and stopped in front of the posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then we started on again, and outside the town the road commenced to mount. We were going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long string of six mules, following one after the other, hauling a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind was another string of mules and another wagon. This was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hills were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. We came around a curve into a town, and on both sides opened out a sudden green valley. A stream went through the centre of the town and fields of grapes touched the houses. The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was unstrapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?" "Way off there where the mountain starts." "It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Se ora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oak-panelled. The shutters were up and it was so cold you could see your breath. "My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a stream in this weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and started to play. "I got to keep warm," he said. I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "Twelve pesetas." "Why, we only paid that in Pamplona." She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron. "That's too much," I said. "We didn't pay more than that at a big hotel." "We've put in a bathroom." "Haven't you got anything cheaper?" "Not in the summer. Now is the big season." We were the only people in the inn. Well, I thought, it's only a few days. "Is the wine included?" "Oh, yes." "Well," I said. "It's all right." I went | a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said.<|quote|>"I guess I like them."</|quote|>Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete | The Sun Also Rises |
He replied: | No speaker | would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure | just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which | I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us | trial? Yes, of course I will write him an apology, but please will you dictate it?" Between them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. "Shall I write another?" she enquired. "Nothing matters if I can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, and that is why the British Empire rests on sand." Then she said: "Do I like anyone, though?" Presumably she liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side of her | the brief moment of the cool that was all she asked, and he was able to provide them. Disaster had shown her her limitations, and he realized now what a fine loyal character she was. Her humility was touching. She never repined at getting the worst of both worlds; she regarded it as the due punishment of her stupidity. When he hinted to her that a personal apology to Aziz might be seemly, she said sadly: "Of course. I ought to have thought of it myself, my instincts never help me. Why didn't I rush up to him after the trial? Yes, of course I will write him an apology, but please will you dictate it?" Between them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. "Shall I write another?" she enquired. "Nothing matters if I can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, and that is why the British Empire rests on sand." Then she said: "Do I like anyone, though?" Presumably she liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side of her life did not concern him. His Indian friends were, on the other hand, a bit above themselves. Victory, which would have made the English sanctimonious, made them aggressive. They wanted to develop an offensive, and tried to do so by discovering new grievances and wrongs, many of which had no existence. They suffered from the usual disillusion that attends warfare. The aims of battle and the fruits of conquest are never the same; the latter have their value and only the saint rejects them, but their hint of immortality vanishes as soon as they are held in the hand. Although | Fielding on having taken "the broad, the sensible, the only possible charitable view from the first. Speaking confidentially . . ." he proceeded. Fielding deprecated confidences, but Sir Gilbert insisted on imparting them; the affair had been "mishandled by certain of our friends up the hill" who did not realize that "the hands of the clock move forward, not back," etc., etc. One thing he could guarantee: the Principal would receive a most cordial invitation to rejoin the club, and he begged, nay commanded him, to accept. He returned to his Himalayan altitudes well satisfied; the amount of money Miss Quested would have to pay, the precise nature of what had happened in the caves these were local details, and did not concern him. Fielding found himself drawn more and more into Miss Quested's affairs. The College remained closed and he ate and slept at Hamidullah's, so there was no reason she should not stop on if she wished. In her place he would have cleared out, sooner than submit to Ronny's half-hearted and distracted civilities, but she was waiting for the hour-glass of her sojourn to run through. A house to live in, a garden to walk in during the brief moment of the cool that was all she asked, and he was able to provide them. Disaster had shown her her limitations, and he realized now what a fine loyal character she was. Her humility was touching. She never repined at getting the worst of both worlds; she regarded it as the due punishment of her stupidity. When he hinted to her that a personal apology to Aziz might be seemly, she said sadly: "Of course. I ought to have thought of it myself, my instincts never help me. Why didn't I rush up to him after the trial? Yes, of course I will write him an apology, but please will you dictate it?" Between them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. "Shall I write another?" she enquired. "Nothing matters if I can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, and that is why the British Empire rests on sand." Then she said: "Do I like anyone, though?" Presumably she liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side of her life did not concern him. His Indian friends were, on the other hand, a bit above themselves. Victory, which would have made the English sanctimonious, made them aggressive. They wanted to develop an offensive, and tried to do so by discovering new grievances and wrongs, many of which had no existence. They suffered from the usual disillusion that attends warfare. The aims of battle and the fruits of conquest are never the same; the latter have their value and only the saint rejects them, but their hint of immortality vanishes as soon as they are held in the hand. Although Sir Gilbert had been courteous, almost obsequious, the fabric he represented had in no wise bowed its head. British officialism remained, as all-pervading and as unpleasant as the sun; and what was next to be done against it was not very obvious, even to Mahmoud Ali. Loud talk and trivial lawlessness were attempted, and behind them continued a genuine but vague desire for education. "Mr. Fielding, we must all be educated promptly." Aziz was friendly and domineering. He wanted Fielding to "give in to the East," as he called it, and live in a condition of affectionate dependence upon it. "You can trust me, Cyril." No question of that, and Fielding had no roots among his own people. Yet he really couldn't become a sort of Mohammed Latif. When they argued about it something racial intruded not bitterly, but inevitably, like the colour of their skins: coffee-colour versus pinko-grey. And Aziz would conclude: "Can't you see that I'm grateful to you for your help and want to reward you?" And the other would retort: "If you want to reward me, let Miss Quested off paying." The insensitiveness about Adela displeased him. It would, from every point of view, be right | Adela! And now she still gave trouble with ridiculous "tombs," mixing herself up with natives. She could not help it, of course, but she had attempted similar exasperating expeditions in her lifetime, and he reckoned it against her. The young man had much to worry him the heat, the local tension, the approaching visit of the Lieutenant-Governor, the problems of Adela and threading them all together into a grotesque garland were these Indianizations of Mrs. Moore. What does happen to one's mother when she dies? Presumably she goes to heaven, anyhow she clears out. Ronny's religion was of the sterilized Public School brand, which never goes bad, even in the tropics. Wherever he entered, mosque, cave, or temple, he retained the spiritual outlook of the Fifth Form, and condemned as "weakening" any attempt to understand them. Pulling himself together, he dismissed the mater from his mind. In due time he and his half-brother and -sister would put up a tablet to her in the Northamptonshire church where she had worshipped, recording the dates of her birth and death and the fact that she had been buried at sea. This would be sufficient. And Adela she would have to depart too; he hoped she would have made the suggestion herself ere now. He really could not marry her it would mean the end of his career. Poor lamentable Adela. . . . She remained at Government College, by Fielding's courtesy unsuitable and humiliating, but no one would receive her at the civil station. He postponed all private talk until the award against her was decided. Aziz was suing her for damages in the sub-judge's court. Then he would ask her to release him. She had killed his love, and it had never been very robust; they would never have achieved betrothal but for the accident to the Nawab Bahadur's car. She belonged to the callow academic period of his life which he had outgrown Grasmere, serious talks and walks, that sort of thing. CHAPTER XXIX The visit of the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province formed the next stage in the decomposition of the Marabar. Sir Gilbert, though not an enlightened man, held enlightened opinions. Exempted by a long career in the Secretariate from personal contact with the peoples of India, he was able to speak of them urbanely, and to deplore racial prejudice. He applauded the outcome of the trial, and congratulated Fielding on having taken "the broad, the sensible, the only possible charitable view from the first. Speaking confidentially . . ." he proceeded. Fielding deprecated confidences, but Sir Gilbert insisted on imparting them; the affair had been "mishandled by certain of our friends up the hill" who did not realize that "the hands of the clock move forward, not back," etc., etc. One thing he could guarantee: the Principal would receive a most cordial invitation to rejoin the club, and he begged, nay commanded him, to accept. He returned to his Himalayan altitudes well satisfied; the amount of money Miss Quested would have to pay, the precise nature of what had happened in the caves these were local details, and did not concern him. Fielding found himself drawn more and more into Miss Quested's affairs. The College remained closed and he ate and slept at Hamidullah's, so there was no reason she should not stop on if she wished. In her place he would have cleared out, sooner than submit to Ronny's half-hearted and distracted civilities, but she was waiting for the hour-glass of her sojourn to run through. A house to live in, a garden to walk in during the brief moment of the cool that was all she asked, and he was able to provide them. Disaster had shown her her limitations, and he realized now what a fine loyal character she was. Her humility was touching. She never repined at getting the worst of both worlds; she regarded it as the due punishment of her stupidity. When he hinted to her that a personal apology to Aziz might be seemly, she said sadly: "Of course. I ought to have thought of it myself, my instincts never help me. Why didn't I rush up to him after the trial? Yes, of course I will write him an apology, but please will you dictate it?" Between them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. "Shall I write another?" she enquired. "Nothing matters if I can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, and that is why the British Empire rests on sand." Then she said: "Do I like anyone, though?" Presumably she liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side of her life did not concern him. His Indian friends were, on the other hand, a bit above themselves. Victory, which would have made the English sanctimonious, made them aggressive. They wanted to develop an offensive, and tried to do so by discovering new grievances and wrongs, many of which had no existence. They suffered from the usual disillusion that attends warfare. The aims of battle and the fruits of conquest are never the same; the latter have their value and only the saint rejects them, but their hint of immortality vanishes as soon as they are held in the hand. Although Sir Gilbert had been courteous, almost obsequious, the fabric he represented had in no wise bowed its head. British officialism remained, as all-pervading and as unpleasant as the sun; and what was next to be done against it was not very obvious, even to Mahmoud Ali. Loud talk and trivial lawlessness were attempted, and behind them continued a genuine but vague desire for education. "Mr. Fielding, we must all be educated promptly." Aziz was friendly and domineering. He wanted Fielding to "give in to the East," as he called it, and live in a condition of affectionate dependence upon it. "You can trust me, Cyril." No question of that, and Fielding had no roots among his own people. Yet he really couldn't become a sort of Mohammed Latif. When they argued about it something racial intruded not bitterly, but inevitably, like the colour of their skins: coffee-colour versus pinko-grey. And Aziz would conclude: "Can't you see that I'm grateful to you for your help and want to reward you?" And the other would retort: "If you want to reward me, let Miss Quested off paying." The insensitiveness about Adela displeased him. It would, from every point of view, be right to treat her generously, and one day he had the notion of appealing to the memory of Mrs. Moore. Aziz had this high and fantastic estimate of Mrs. Moore. Her death had been a real grief to his warm heart; he wept like a child and ordered his three children to weep also. There was no doubt that he respected and loved her. Fielding's first attempt was a failure. The reply was: "I see your trick. I want revenge on them. Why should I be insulted and suffer and the contents of my pockets read and my wife's photograph taken to the police station? Also I want the money to educate my little boys, as I explained to her." But he began to weaken, and Fielding was not ashamed to practise a little necromancy. Whenever the question of compensation came up, he introduced the dead woman's name. Just as other propagandists invented her a tomb, so did he raise a questionable image of her in the heart of Aziz, saying nothing that he believed to be untrue, but producing something that was probably far from the truth. Aziz yielded suddenly. He felt it was Mrs. Moore's wish that he should spare the woman who was about to marry her son, that it was the only honour he could pay her, and he renounced with a passionate and beautiful outburst the whole of the compensation money, claiming only costs. It was fine of him, and, as he foresaw, it won him no credit with the English. They still believed he was guilty, they believed it to the end of their careers, and retired Anglo-Indians in Tunbridge Wells or Cheltenham still murmur to each other: "That Marabar case which broke down because the poor girl couldn't face giving her evidence that was another bad case." When the affair was thus officially ended, Ronny, who was about to be transferred to another part of the Province, approached Fielding with his usual constraint and said: "I wish to thank you for the help you have given Miss Quested. She will not of course trespass on your hospitality further; she has as a matter of fact decided to return to England. I have just arranged about her passage for her. I understand she would like to see you." "I shall go round at once." On reaching the College, he found her in some upset. He | but for the accident to the Nawab Bahadur's car. She belonged to the callow academic period of his life which he had outgrown Grasmere, serious talks and walks, that sort of thing. CHAPTER XXIX The visit of the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province formed the next stage in the decomposition of the Marabar. Sir Gilbert, though not an enlightened man, held enlightened opinions. Exempted by a long career in the Secretariate from personal contact with the peoples of India, he was able to speak of them urbanely, and to deplore racial prejudice. He applauded the outcome of the trial, and congratulated Fielding on having taken "the broad, the sensible, the only possible charitable view from the first. Speaking confidentially . . ." he proceeded. Fielding deprecated confidences, but Sir Gilbert insisted on imparting them; the affair had been "mishandled by certain of our friends up the hill" who did not realize that "the hands of the clock move forward, not back," etc., etc. One thing he could guarantee: the Principal would receive a most cordial invitation to rejoin the club, and he begged, nay commanded him, to accept. He returned to his Himalayan altitudes well satisfied; the amount of money Miss Quested would have to pay, the precise nature of what had happened in the caves these were local details, and did not concern him. Fielding found himself drawn more and more into Miss Quested's affairs. The College remained closed and he ate and slept at Hamidullah's, so there was no reason she should not stop on if she wished. In her place he would have cleared out, sooner than submit to Ronny's half-hearted and distracted civilities, but she was waiting for the hour-glass of her sojourn to run through. A house to live in, a garden to walk in during the brief moment of the cool that was all she asked, and he was able to provide them. Disaster had shown her her limitations, and he realized now what a fine loyal character she was. Her humility was touching. She never repined at getting the worst of both worlds; she regarded it as the due punishment of her stupidity. When he hinted to her that a personal apology to Aziz might be seemly, she said sadly: "Of course. I ought to have thought of it myself, my instincts never help me. Why didn't I rush up to him after the trial? Yes, of course I will write him an apology, but please will you dictate it?" Between them they concocted a letter, sincere, and full of moving phrases, but it was not moving as a letter. "Shall I write another?" she enquired. "Nothing matters if I can undo the harm I have caused. I can do this right, and that right; but when the two are put together they come wrong. That's the defect of my character. I have never realized it until now. I thought that if I was just and asked questions I would come through every difficulty."<|quote|>He replied:</|quote|>"Our letter is a failure for a simple reason which we had better face: you have no real affection for Aziz, or Indians generally." She assented. "The first time I saw you, you were wanting to see India, not Indians, and it occurred to me: Ah, that won't take us far. Indians know whether they are liked or not they cannot be fooled here. Justice never satisfies them, and that is why the British Empire rests on sand." Then she said: "Do I like anyone, though?" Presumably she liked Heaslop, and he changed the subject, for this side of her life did not concern him. His Indian friends were, on the other hand, a bit above themselves. Victory, which would have made the English sanctimonious, made them aggressive. They wanted to develop an offensive, and tried to do so by discovering new grievances and wrongs, many of which had no existence. They suffered from the usual disillusion that attends warfare. The aims of battle and the fruits of conquest are never the same; the latter have their value and only the saint rejects them, but their hint of immortality vanishes as soon as they are held in the hand. Although Sir Gilbert had been courteous, almost obsequious, the fabric he represented had in no wise bowed its head. British officialism remained, as all-pervading and as unpleasant as the sun; and what was next to be done against it was not very obvious, even to Mahmoud Ali. Loud talk and trivial lawlessness were attempted, and behind them continued a genuine but vague desire for education. "Mr. Fielding, we must all be educated promptly." Aziz was friendly and domineering. He wanted Fielding to "give in to the East," as he called it, and live in a condition of affectionate dependence upon it. "You can | A Passage To India |
"Let's see that bottle," | Bill Gorton | his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the | came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the | two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of | them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a | and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the | bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'" "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers." "Where did you know him?" "He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together." "And Frankie Fritsch." "It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham." "Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning." "It's a | a spring flowed out of an iron pipe. There was a board over the spring and I lifted it and, knocking the corks firmly into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numbed. I put back the slab of wood, and hoped nobody would find the wine. I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the dam. I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to pull up I felt that I had one and brought him, fighting and bending the rod almost double, out of the boiling water at the foot of the falls, and swung him up and onto the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head against the timber so that he quivered out straight, and then slipped him into my bag. While I had him on, several trout had jumped at the falls. As soon as I baited up and dropped in again I hooked another and brought him in the same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'" "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers." "Where did you know him?" "He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together." "And Frankie Fritsch." "It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham." "Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning." "It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself." "You're cock-eyed," I said. "On wine?" "Why not?" "It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity away." "Have another shot." "Is this all we've got?" "Only the two bottles." "Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately. "No," I said. "You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League." "I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler." "It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president." "Well," I said, "the saloon must go." "You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go, and I will take it with me." "You're cock-eyed." "On wine?" "On wine." "Well, maybe I am." "Want to take a nap?" "All right." We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees. "You asleep?" "No," Bill said. "I was thinking." I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. "Say," Bill said, "what about this Brett business?" "What about it?" "Were you ever in love with her?" "Sure." "For how long?" "Off and on for a hell of a long time." "Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella." "It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more." "Really?" "Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it." "You aren't sore I asked you?" "Why the hell should I be?" "I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face. "Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?" "Technically." "What does that mean?" "I don't know." "All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by talking so much." I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. It was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground. "What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes. "I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream." "I don't think I dreamt." "You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at | brought him in the same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes." "You lazy bum!" Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.<|quote|>"Let's see that bottle,"</|quote|>he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'" "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers." "Where did you know him?" "He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together." "And Frankie Fritsch." "It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham." "Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning." "It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself." "You're cock-eyed," I said. "On wine?" "Why not?" "It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity away." "Have another shot." "Is this all we've got?" "Only the two bottles." "Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately. "No," I said. "You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League." "I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler." "It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president." "Well," I said, "the saloon must go." "You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go, and I will take it with me." "You're cock-eyed." "On wine?" "On wine." "Well, maybe I am." "Want to take a nap?" "All right." We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees. "You asleep?" "No," Bill said. "I was thinking." I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. "Say," Bill said, "what about | The Sun Also Rises |
Home--he means the huts. | No speaker | wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, | up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I | breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it | voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war." * * We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down--a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The | on his forelegs and drags himself round in a circle like a merry-go-round; squatting, it drags round in circles on its stiffened forelegs, apparently its back is broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly it sinks to the ground. We take our hands from our ears. The cries are silenced. Only a long-drawn, dying sigh still hangs on the air. Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars--and they shine out wonderfully. Detering walks up and down cursing: "Like to know what harm they've done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war." * * We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down--a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety-valves--heavy fire---- "Take cover!" yells somebody-- "Cover!" The fields are flat, the wood is too distant and dangerous--the only cover is the graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and raves. Darknesses blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard. There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells I try to | larger black clumps moving about. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop away in the distance, fall down, and then run on farther. The belly of one is ripped open, the guts trail out. He becomes tangled in them and falls, then he stands up again. Detering raises his gun and aims. Kat hits it up in the air. "Are you mad----?" Detering trembles and throws his rifle on the ground. We sit down and hold our ears. But this appalling noise, these groans and screams penetrate, they penetrate everywhere. We can bear almost anything. But now the sweat breaks out on us. We must get up and run, no matter where, but where these cries can no longer be heard. And it is not men, only horses. From the dark group stretchers move off again. Then single shots crack out. The black heap is convulsed and becomes thinner. At last! But still it is not the end. The men cannot overtake the wounded beasts which fly in their pain, their wide open mouths full of anguish. One of the men goes down on his knee, a shot--one horse drops--another. The last one props himself on his forelegs and drags himself round in a circle like a merry-go-round; squatting, it drags round in circles on its stiffened forelegs, apparently its back is broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly it sinks to the ground. We take our hands from our ears. The cries are silenced. Only a long-drawn, dying sigh still hangs on the air. Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars--and they shine out wonderfully. Detering walks up and down cursing: "Like to know what harm they've done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war." * * We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down--a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety-valves--heavy fire---- "Take cover!" yells somebody-- "Cover!" The fields are flat, the wood is too distant and dangerous--the only cover is the graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and raves. Darknesses blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard. There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells I try to get a view of the fields. They are a surging sea, daggers of flame from the explosions leap up like fountains. It is impossible for anyone to break through it. The wood vanishes, it is pounded, crushed, torn to pieces. We must stay here in the grave-yard. The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack. My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does not reassure me: wounds don't hurt till afterwards. I feel the arm all over. It is grazed but sound. Now a crack on the skull, I begin to lose consciousness. Like lightning the thought comes to me: Don't faint, sink down in the black broth and immediately come up to the top again. A splinter slashes into my helmet, but has travelled so far that it does not go through. I wipe the mud out of my eyes. A hole is torn up in front of me. Shells hardly ever land in the same hole twice, I'll get into it. With one bound I fling myself down and lie on the earth as flat as a fish; there it whistles again, quickly I crouch | it can be damned painful. Besides, a man has to lie a whole month on his belly in the hospital, and afterwards he would be almost sure to have a limp. It's got someone pretty badly. Cries are heard between the explosions. At last it grows quiet. The fire has lifted over us and is now dropping on the reserves. We risk a look. Red rockets shoot up to the sky. Apparently there's an attack coming. Where we are it is still quiet. I sit up and shake the recruit by the shoulder. "All over, kid! It's all right this time." He looks round him dazedly. "You'll get used to it soon," I tell him. He sees his helmet and puts it on. Gradually he comes to. Then suddenly he turns fiery red and looks confused. Cautiously he reaches his hand to his behind and looks at me dismally. I understand at once: Gun-shy. That wasn't the reason I had stuck his helmet over it. "That's no disgrace," I reassure him: "Many's the man before you has had his pants full after the first bombardment. Go behind that bush there and throw your underpants away. Get along----" * * He goes off. Things become quieter, but the cries do not cease. "What's up, Albert?" I ask. "A couple of columns over there have got it in the neck." The cries continue. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly. "Wounded horses," says Kat. It's unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning. We are pale. Detering stands up. "God! For God's sake! Shoot them!" He is a farmer and very fond of horses. It gets under his skin. Then as if deliberately the fire dies down again. The screaming of the beasts becomes louder. One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet, silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably. Detering raves and yells out: "Shoot them! Shoot them, can't you? damn you again!" "They must look after the men first," says Kat quietly. We stand up and try to see where it is. If we could only see the animals we should be able to endure it better. Müller has a pair of glasses. We see a dark group, bearers with stretchers, and larger black clumps moving about. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop away in the distance, fall down, and then run on farther. The belly of one is ripped open, the guts trail out. He becomes tangled in them and falls, then he stands up again. Detering raises his gun and aims. Kat hits it up in the air. "Are you mad----?" Detering trembles and throws his rifle on the ground. We sit down and hold our ears. But this appalling noise, these groans and screams penetrate, they penetrate everywhere. We can bear almost anything. But now the sweat breaks out on us. We must get up and run, no matter where, but where these cries can no longer be heard. And it is not men, only horses. From the dark group stretchers move off again. Then single shots crack out. The black heap is convulsed and becomes thinner. At last! But still it is not the end. The men cannot overtake the wounded beasts which fly in their pain, their wide open mouths full of anguish. One of the men goes down on his knee, a shot--one horse drops--another. The last one props himself on his forelegs and drags himself round in a circle like a merry-go-round; squatting, it drags round in circles on its stiffened forelegs, apparently its back is broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly it sinks to the ground. We take our hands from our ears. The cries are silenced. Only a long-drawn, dying sigh still hangs on the air. Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars--and they shine out wonderfully. Detering walks up and down cursing: "Like to know what harm they've done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war." * * We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down--a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety-valves--heavy fire---- "Take cover!" yells somebody-- "Cover!" The fields are flat, the wood is too distant and dangerous--the only cover is the graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and raves. Darknesses blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard. There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells I try to get a view of the fields. They are a surging sea, daggers of flame from the explosions leap up like fountains. It is impossible for anyone to break through it. The wood vanishes, it is pounded, crushed, torn to pieces. We must stay here in the grave-yard. The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack. My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does not reassure me: wounds don't hurt till afterwards. I feel the arm all over. It is grazed but sound. Now a crack on the skull, I begin to lose consciousness. Like lightning the thought comes to me: Don't faint, sink down in the black broth and immediately come up to the top again. A splinter slashes into my helmet, but has travelled so far that it does not go through. I wipe the mud out of my eyes. A hole is torn up in front of me. Shells hardly ever land in the same hole twice, I'll get into it. With one bound I fling myself down and lie on the earth as flat as a fish; there it whistles again, quickly I crouch together, claw for cover, feel something on the left, shove in beside it, it gives way, I groan, the earth leaps, the blast thunders in my ears, I creep under the yielding thing, cover myself with it, draw it over me, it is wood, cloth, cover, cover, miserable cover against the whizzing splinters. I open my eyes--my fingers grasp a sleeve, an arm. A wounded man? I yell to him--no answer--a dead man. My hand gropes farther, splinters of wood--now I remember again that we are lying in the graveyard. But the shelling is stronger than everything. It wipes out the sensibilities, I merely crawl still deeper into the coffin, it should protect me, and especially as Death himself lies in it too. Before me gapes the shell-hole. I grasp it with my eyes as with fists. With one leap I must be in it. There, I get a smack in the face, a hand clamps on to my shoulder--has the dead man waked up?--The hand shakes me, I turn my head, in the second of light I stare into the face of Katczinsky, he has his mouth wide open and is yelling. I hear nothing, he rattles me, comes nearer, in a momentary lull his voice reaches me: "Gas--Gaas--Gaaas--Pass it on." I grab for my gas-mask. Some distance from me there lies someone. I think of nothing but this: That fellow there must know: Gaaas--Gaaas---- I call, I lean toward him, I swipe at him with the satchel, he doesn't see--once again, again--he merely ducks--it's a recruit--I look at Kat desperately, he has his mask ready--I pull out mine too, my helmet falls to one side, it slips over my face, I reach the man, his satchel is on the side nearest me, I seize the mask, pull it over his head, he understands, I let go and with a jump drop back into the shell-hole. The dull thud of the gas-shells mingles with the crashes of the high explosives. A bell sounds between the explosions, gongs, and metal clappers warning everyone--Gas--Gas--Gaas. Someone plumps down behind me, another. I wipe the goggles of my mask clear of the moist breath. It is Kat, Kropp, and someone else. All four of us lie there in heavy, watchful suspense and breathe as lightly as possible. These first minutes with the mask decide between life and death: is it tightly woven? I | He is a farmer and very fond of horses. It gets under his skin. Then as if deliberately the fire dies down again. The screaming of the beasts becomes louder. One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet, silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably. Detering raves and yells out: "Shoot them! Shoot them, can't you? damn you again!" "They must look after the men first," says Kat quietly. We stand up and try to see where it is. If we could only see the animals we should be able to endure it better. Müller has a pair of glasses. We see a dark group, bearers with stretchers, and larger black clumps moving about. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop away in the distance, fall down, and then run on farther. The belly of one is ripped open, the guts trail out. He becomes tangled in them and falls, then he stands up again. Detering raises his gun and aims. Kat hits it up in the air. "Are you mad----?" Detering trembles and throws his rifle on the ground. We sit down and hold our ears. But this appalling noise, these groans and screams penetrate, they penetrate everywhere. We can bear almost anything. But now the sweat breaks out on us. We must get up and run, no matter where, but where these cries can no longer be heard. And it is not men, only horses. From the dark group stretchers move off again. Then single shots crack out. The black heap is convulsed and becomes thinner. At last! But still it is not the end. The men cannot overtake the wounded beasts which fly in their pain, their wide open mouths full of anguish. One of the men goes down on his knee, a shot--one horse drops--another. The last one props himself on his forelegs and drags himself round in a circle like a merry-go-round; squatting, it drags round in circles on its stiffened forelegs, apparently its back is broken. The soldier runs up and shoots it. Slowly, humbly it sinks to the ground. We take our hands from our ears. The cries are silenced. Only a long-drawn, dying sigh still hangs on the air. Then again only the rockets, the singing of the shells, and the stars--and they shine out wonderfully. Detering walks up and down cursing: "Like to know what harm they've done." He returns to it once again. His voice is agitated, it sounds almost dignified as he says: "I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war." * * We go back. It is time we returned to the lorries. The sky is become a bit brighter. Three o'clock in the morning. The breeze is fresh and cool, the pale hour makes our faces look grey. We trudge onward in single file through the trenches and shell-holes and come again to the zone of mist. Katczinsky is restive, that's a bad sign. "What's up, Kat?" says Kropp. "I wish I were back home."<|quote|>Home--he means the huts.</|quote|>"It won't last much longer, Kat." He is nervous. "I don't know, I don't know----" We come to the communication-trench and then to the open fields. The little wood reappears; we know every foot of ground here. There's the cemetery with the mounds and the black crosses. That moment it breaks out behind us, swells, roars, and thunders. We duck down--a cloud of flame shoots up a hundred yards ahead of us. The next minute under a second explosion part of the wood rises slowly in the air, three or four trees sail up and then crash to pieces. The shells begin to hiss like safety-valves--heavy fire---- "Take cover!" yells somebody-- "Cover!" The fields are flat, the wood is too distant and dangerous--the only cover is the graveyard and the mounds. We stumble across in the dark and as though spirited away every man lies glued behind a mound. Not a moment too soon. The dark goes mad. It heaves and raves. Darknesses blacker than the night rush on us with giant strides, over us and away. The flames of the explosions light up the graveyard. There is no escape anywhere. By the light of the shells I try to get a view of the fields. They are a surging sea, daggers of flame from the explosions leap up like fountains. It is impossible for anyone to break through it. The wood vanishes, it is pounded, crushed, torn to pieces. We must stay here in the grave-yard. The earth bursts before us. It rains clods. I feel a smack. My sleeve is torn away by a splinter. I shut my fist. No pain. Still that does not reassure me: wounds don't hurt till afterwards. I feel | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," | Polina Alexandrovna | Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. | that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she | Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I | squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is | here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I | a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them | and straightway started afresh with his fussy instructions. "Stake just _once_, as he advises," the Grandmother said to me, "and then we shall see what we _shall_ see. Of course, his stake _might_ win." As a matter of fact, De Grier s one object was to distract the old lady from staking large sums; wherefore, he now suggested to her that she should stake upon certain numbers, singly and in groups. Consequently, in accordance with his instructions, I staked a ten-g lden piece upon several odd numbers in the first twenty, and five ten-g lden pieces upon certain groups of numbers-groups of from twelve to eighteen, and from eighteen to twenty-four. The total staked amounted to 160 g lden. The wheel revolved. "Zero!" cried the croupier. We had lost it all! "The fool!" cried the old lady as she turned upon De Griers. "You infernal Frenchman, to think that _you_ should advise! Away with you! Though you fuss and fuss, you don t even know what you re talking about." Deeply offended, De Griers shrugged his shoulders, favoured the Grandmother with a look of contempt, and departed. For some time past he had been feeling ashamed of being seen in such company, and this had proved the last straw. An hour later we had lost everything in hand. "Home!" cried the Grandmother. Not until we had turned into the Avenue did she utter a word; but from that point onwards, until we arrived at the hotel, she kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill." "The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame," I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?" "I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" (this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard | kept venting exclamations of "What a fool I am! What a silly old fool I am, to be sure!" Arrived at the hotel, she called for tea, and then gave orders for her luggage to be packed. "We are off again," she announced. "But whither, Madame?" inquired Martha. "What business is that of _yours?_ Let the cricket stick to its hearth." [2] "Potapitch, have everything packed, for we are returning to Moscow at once. I have fooled away fifteen thousand roubles." [2] The Russian form of "Mind your own business." "Fifteen thousand roubles, good mistress? My God!" And Potapitch spat upon his hands probably to show that he was ready to serve her in any way he could. "Now then, you fool! At once you begin with your weeping and wailing! Be quiet, and pack. Also, run downstairs, and get my hotel bill." "The next train leaves at 9:30, Madame," I interposed, with a view to checking her agitation. "And what is the time now?" "Half-past eight." "How vexing! But, never mind. Alexis Ivanovitch, I have not a kopeck left; I have but these two bank notes. Please run to the office and get them changed. Otherwise I shall have nothing to travel with." Departing on her errand, I returned half an hour later to find the whole party gathered in her rooms. It appeared that the news of her impending departure for Moscow had thrown the conspirators into consternation even greater than her losses had done. For, said they, even if her departure should save her fortune, what will become of the General later? And who is to repay De Griers? Clearly Mlle. Blanche would never consent to wait until the Grandmother was dead, but would at once elope with the Prince or someone else. So they had all gathered together endeavouring to calm and dissuade the Grandmother. Only Polina was absent. For her part the Grandmother had nothing for the party but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?"<|quote|>"I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma,"</|quote|>replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become | The Gambler |
"Way off there where the mountain starts." | Jake Barnes | "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill | of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. | we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete | mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" | the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind | "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said. "I guess I like them." Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Se ora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oak-panelled. The shutters were up and it was so cold you could see your breath. "My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a stream in this weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and started to play. "I got to keep warm," he said. I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "Twelve pesetas." "Why, we only paid that in Pamplona." She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron. "That's too much," I said. "We didn't | roof from under the big tarpaulins and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clusters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter with two women behind it serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with supplies and goods. We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, thinking I had misunderstood the price. Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody waving we started off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said. "I guess I like them." Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Se ora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oak-panelled. The shutters were up and it was so cold you could see your breath. "My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a stream in this weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and started to play. "I got to keep warm," he said. I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "Twelve pesetas." "Why, we only paid that in Pamplona." She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron. "That's too much," I said. "We didn't pay more than that at a big hotel." "We've put in a bathroom." "Haven't you got anything cheaper?" "Not in the summer. Now is the big season." We were the only people in the inn. Well, I thought, it's only a few days. "Is the wine included?" "Oh, yes." "Well," I said. "It's all right." I went back to Bill. He blew his breath at me to show how cold it was, and went on playing. I sat at one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall. There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, also dead, and one panel of dead ducks. The panels were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cupboard full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all. Bill was still playing. "How about a hot rum punch?" he said. "This isn't going to keep me warm permanently." I went out and told the woman what a rum punch was and how to make it. In a few minutes a girl brought a stone pitcher, steaming, into the room. Bill came over from the piano and we drank the hot punch and listened to the wind. "There isn't too much rum in that." I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum bottle and poured a half-tumblerful into the pitcher. "Direct action," said Bill. "It beats legislation." The girl came in and laid the table for supper. "It blows like hell up here," Bill said. The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup and the wine. We had fried trout afterward and some sort of a stew and a big bowl full of wild strawberries. We did not lose money on the wine, and the girl was shy but nice about bringing it The old woman looked in once and counted the empty bottles. After supper we went up-stairs and smoked and read in bed to keep warm. Once in the night I woke and heard the wind blowing. It felt good to be warm and in bed. CHAPTER 12 When I woke in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds on the mountains. Outside under the window were some carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof cracked and split by the weather. It must have been left from the days | off. The road left the green valley at once, and we were up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque were having a conversation. A man leaned over from the other side of the seat and asked in English: "You're Americans?" "Sure." "I been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the stubble of a white beard. "How was it?" "What you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. It was fine." "Why did you leave?" "What you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh! I come back to get married. I was going to go back but my wife she don't like to travel. Where you from?" "Kansas City." "I been there," he said. "I been in Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City." He named them carefully. "How long were you over?" "Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married." "Have a drink?" "All right," he said. "You can't get this in America, eh?" "There's plenty if you can pay for it." "What you come over here for?" "We're going to the fiesta at Pamplona." "You like the bull-fights?" "Sure. Don't you?" "Yes," he said. "I guess I like them." Then after a little: "Where you go now?" "Up to Burguete to fish." "Well," he said, "I hope you catch something." He shook hands and turned around to the back seat again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around to look at the country. But the effort of talking American seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything after that. The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could see the country spread out below. Far back the fields were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Making the horizon were the brown mountains. They were strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road we could see other mountains coming up in the south. Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed roof of the monastery of Roncesvalles. "There's Roncevaux," I said. "Where?"<|quote|>"Way off there where the mountain starts."</|quote|>"It's cold up here," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "It must be twelve hundred metres." "It's awful cold," Bill said. The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road that ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete were along both sides of the road. There were no side-streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. "What's in there?" he pointed to the rod-case. I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fishing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date and then waved us on. "Is that all right?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, to the inn. The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes-chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra Se ora de Roncesvalles. The wind was blowing against the shutters. The room was on the north side of the inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, and was oak-panelled. The shutters were up and it was so cold you could see your breath. "My God!" said Bill. "It can't be this cold to-morrow. I'm not going to wade a stream in this weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and started to play. "I got to keep warm," he said. I went out to find the woman and ask her how much the room and board was. She put her hands under her apron and looked away from me. "Twelve pesetas." "Why, we only paid that in Pamplona." She did not say anything, just took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron. "That's too much," I said. "We didn't pay more than that at a big hotel." "We've put in | The Sun Also Rises |
"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." | Elinor | be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of | feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she | place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all | about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this | a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, | interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this." "There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should | of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all. "Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this." "There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o clock. CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Dashwood s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park they found Willoughby s curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne | complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,<|quote|>"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."</|quote|>"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this." "There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I | Sense And Sensibility |
"I have, Sir." | Elizabeth | of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come | was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother | the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother | Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_." Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she | for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_." Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?" "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_." Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him." "My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be." Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened | her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it." "Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity." "Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure." She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_." Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?" "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_." Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him." "My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be." Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied however, her determination never did. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret. While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him." Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than | attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females." "I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart." "You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable." To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. CHAPTER XX. Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe it, and could not help saying so. "But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it." "Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity." "Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure." She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_." Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?" "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_." Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him." "My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be." Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied however, her determination never did. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret. While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him." Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone, "for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves." Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. "Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way.--But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead.--_I_ shall not be able to keep you--and so I warn you.--I have done with you from this very day.--I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children.--Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer!--But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied." Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, "Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together." Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful | the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe it, and could not help saying so. "But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it." "Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity." "Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure." She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_." Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication. "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?" "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy." "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business." "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him." "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion." Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library. "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"<|quote|>"I have, Sir."</|quote|>"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?" "Yes, or I will never see her again." "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you _do_." Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me to _insist_ upon her marrying him." "My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be." Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied however, her determination never did. Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret. While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him." Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone, "for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves." Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. "Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at | Pride And Prejudice |
"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do," | Marilla Cuthbert | dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go | knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you | said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose | had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad | Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and | I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?" "I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night." "I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. "Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun |FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said | Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back. "I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?" "I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night." "I can only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows. Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew. "Matthew Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send her to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's what I'll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can't get through this world without our share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun |FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can't I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No. I'm not your aunt and I don't believe in calling people names that don't belong to them." "But we could imagine you were my aunt." "I couldn't," said Marilla grimly. "Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?" asked Anne wide-eyed. "No." "Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!" "I don't believe in imagining things different from what they really are," retorted Marilla. "When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn't mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting room, Anne--be sure your feet are clean and don't let any flies in--and bring me out the illustrated card that's on the mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and you'll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There's to be no more of such praying as I heard last night." "I suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you see, I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister's and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn't remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I'm afraid I'll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they're thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?" "Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you." Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her eyes a-star with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly radiance. "Anne, whatever are you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply. Anne came back to earth with a start. "That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--" "and I was just imagining I was one of them--that I was the little girl in | has come at last and I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it." CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is Begun |FOR reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe. When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: "Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a dreadful feeling. Please tell me."<|quote|>"You haven't scalded the dishcloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,"</|quote|>said Marilla immovably. "Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne." Anne went and attended to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, "I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you--that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?" "I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't think why. I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, _glad_ doesn't seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh, it's something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell me why I'm crying?" "I suppose it's because you're all excited and worked up," said Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I'm afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's only a fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start before it opens again in September." "What am I to call you?" asked Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?" "No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous." "It sounds awfully disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne. "I guess there'll be nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of it." "I'd love to call you Aunt Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never had an aunt or any relation at all--not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. | Anne Of Green Gables |
"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another." | Lilia | she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his | she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling | assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened | settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried | At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?" She crossed herself. "Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not | long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?" She crossed herself. "Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict | but she could not see how. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little town. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that would be stranger still--vast slopes of olives and vineyards, with chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olives and more farms, and more little towns outlined against the cloudless sky. "I don t call this country," she would say. "Why, it s not as wild as Sawston Park!" And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness in it--some of those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousand years. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and its continued presence made Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect. She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a time she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not "married properly," and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she called it, "Santa Deodata s." Gino approved; he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home. The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few left for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question; they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would "do," and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply. At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?" She crossed herself. "Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta s arms. Perfetta was kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break away, there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel, endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right. "Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be different. I know he wants a son." Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves our tears. She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as she had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that the semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left | in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. It was the old question of going out alone. "I always do it in England." "This is Italy." "Yes, but I m older than you, and I ll settle." "I am your husband," he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, "And I ve got the money." He looked horrified. Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair. "And you d better mend your manners," she continued, "for you d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques." She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards,<|quote|>"None of his clothes seemed to fit--too big in one place, too small in another."</|quote|>His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word. "What has happened?" cried Lilia, nearly fainting. "He is ill--ill." Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. "What did you say to him?" She crossed herself. "Hardly anything," said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male. It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring "It was not I," striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how to treat a lady--or to manage a wife. And his own social position was uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their brief contention, and this time the South had won. It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as such. Of course, had Lilia been different--had she asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband as well as a better man, and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia been different she might not have married him. The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street." | Brett Ashley | "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a | Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to | the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and | Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We | liked the count." "Where did you go with him?" "Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?" "Around two thousand." "Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz." Brett laughed. "I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said. "Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting | asleep, were you?" "What did you think I was doing?" "Don't know. What time is it?" I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. "Had no idea what hour it was," Brett said. "I say, can a chap sit down? Don't be cross, darling. Just left the count. He brought me here." "What's he like?" I was getting brandy and soda and glasses. "Just a little," said Brett. "Don't try and make me drunk. The count? Oh, rather. He's quite one of us." "Is he a count?" "Here's how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Knows hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweetshops in the States." She sipped at her glass. "Think he called it a chain. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned interesting. He's one of us, though. Oh, quite. No doubt. One can always tell." She took another drink. "How do I buck on about all this? You don't mind, do you? He's putting up for Zizi, you know." "Is Zizi really a duke, too?" "I shouldn't wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the count." "Where did you go with him?" "Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?" "Around two thousand." "Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz." Brett laughed. "I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said. "Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. CHAPTER 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the | thing. I was all bandaged up. But they had told him about it. Then he made that wonderful speech: "You, a foreigner, an Englishman" (any foreigner was an Englishman) "have given more than your life." What a speech! I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guess. "Che mala fortuna! Che mala fortuna!" I never used to realize it, I guess. I try and play it along and just not make trouble for people. Probably I never would have had any trouble if I hadn't run into Brett when they shipped me to England. I suppose she only wanted what she couldn't have. Well, people were that way. To hell with people. The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it. I lay awake thinking and my mind jumping around. Then I couldn't keep away from it, and I started to think about Brett and all the rest of it went away. I was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jumping around and started to go in sort of smooth waves. Then all of a sudden I started to cry. Then after a while it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trams go by and way down the street, and then I went to sleep. I woke up. There was a row going on outside. I listened and I thought I recognized a voice. I put on a dressing-gown and went to the door. The concierge was talking down-stairs. She was very angry. I heard my name and called down the stairs. "Is that you, Monsieur Barnes?" the concierge called. "Yes. It's me." "There's a species of woman here who's waked the whole street up. What kind of a dirty business at this time of night! She says she must see you. I've told her you're asleep." Then I heard Brett's voice. Half asleep I had been sure it was Georgette. I don't know why. She could not have known my address. "Will you send her up, please?" Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. "Silly thing to do," she said. "Make an awful row. I say, you weren't asleep, were you?" "What did you think I was doing?" "Don't know. What time is it?" I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. "Had no idea what hour it was," Brett said. "I say, can a chap sit down? Don't be cross, darling. Just left the count. He brought me here." "What's he like?" I was getting brandy and soda and glasses. "Just a little," said Brett. "Don't try and make me drunk. The count? Oh, rather. He's quite one of us." "Is he a count?" "Here's how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Knows hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweetshops in the States." She sipped at her glass. "Think he called it a chain. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned interesting. He's one of us, though. Oh, quite. No doubt. One can always tell." She took another drink. "How do I buck on about all this? You don't mind, do you? He's putting up for Zizi, you know." "Is Zizi really a duke, too?" "I shouldn't wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the count." "Where did you go with him?" "Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?" "Around two thousand." "Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz." Brett laughed. "I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said. "Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. CHAPTER 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Op ra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran aise diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. "What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around." "Oh, I'm over in the Quarter." "I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?" "Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select." "I've meant to get over," said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids." "Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked. "Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded." "The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said. "Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country." "That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car." "I've been thinking some about getting a car next year." I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's | up. What kind of a dirty business at this time of night! She says she must see you. I've told her you're asleep." Then I heard Brett's voice. Half asleep I had been sure it was Georgette. I don't know why. She could not have known my address. "Will you send her up, please?" Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. "Silly thing to do," she said. "Make an awful row. I say, you weren't asleep, were you?" "What did you think I was doing?" "Don't know. What time is it?" I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. "Had no idea what hour it was," Brett said. "I say, can a chap sit down? Don't be cross, darling. Just left the count. He brought me here." "What's he like?" I was getting brandy and soda and glasses. "Just a little," said Brett. "Don't try and make me drunk. The count? Oh, rather. He's quite one of us." "Is he a count?" "Here's how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Knows hell's own amount about people. Don't know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweetshops in the States." She sipped at her glass. "Think he called it a chain. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned interesting. He's one of us, though. Oh, quite. No doubt. One can always tell." She took another drink. "How do I buck on about all this? You don't mind, do you? He's putting up for Zizi, you know." "Is Zizi really a duke, too?" "I shouldn't wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the count." "Where did you go with him?" "Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds?" "Around two thousand." "Lot of money. I told him I couldn't do it. He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz." Brett laughed. "I say, you are slow on the up-take," she said. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. "That's better. Very funny," Brett said. "Then he wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here." She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. "Don't look like that," she said. "Told him I was in love with you. True, too. Don't look like that. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?" "Why not?" "I'd better go now." "Why?"<|quote|>"Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? He's got the car just up the street."</|quote|>"The count?" "Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. Got it all at Zelli's. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you?" "I have to work in the morning," I said. "I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun." "Don't be an ass." "Can't do it." "Right. Send him a tender message?" "Anything. Absolutely." "Good night, darling." "Don't be sentimental." "You make me ill." We kissed good night and Brett shivered. "I'd better go," she said. "Good night, darling." "You don't have to go." "Yes." We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. CHAPTER 5 In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market | The Sun Also Rises |
he asked, still remembering nothing. | No speaker | Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All | was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." | know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the | me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I | dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she | I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But | a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. "She s overtired," Margaret whispered. "She s something else," said Henry. "This won t do. I can t have her in my garden in this state." "Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque conversations now. Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. "Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply. Jacky replied: "If it isn t Hen!" "Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est tout fait diff rent." "Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he remarked. "Hen, don t go. You do love me, dear, don t you?" "Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. Jacky pointed with her cake. "You re a nice boy, you are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." "Henry, I am awfully sorry." "And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. "To have brought this down on you." "Pray don t apologise." The voice continued. "Why does she call you Hen ?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?" "Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn t seen Hen? He s serving you like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love em." "Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked. Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don t know what it is all about," she said. "Let s come in." But he thought she was acting. He thought he was | words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?"<|quote|>he asked, still remembering nothing.</|quote|>"They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and | Howards End |
said Kemp. | No speaker | me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of | you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do | "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to | Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly | out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be | brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of silver, and in a locked cupboard I burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I could go forth into the world again, equipped." "Then came a curious hesitation. Was | was becoming aware of the faint sounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically acute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage." If there s anyone in this house "he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He put his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing past me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did not follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return." "Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the room, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face." "I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as noiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp so that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat infested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn them. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were littered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its appearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I began routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident sharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just in time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an old-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he stared about open-mouthed and suspicious." It must have been her, "he said slowly." Damn her! "He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the lock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was locked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door to window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me. But I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and my first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought him back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me, jumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the room." "Presently he calmed a little." Rats, "he said in an undertone, fingers on lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the room, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going all over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and pocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of rage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my opportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I made no more ado, but knocked him on the head."" "Knocked him on the head?" exclaimed Kemp. "Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a stool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old boots." "But I say! The common conventions of humanity" "Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I had to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other appliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish again. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque but not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers, and a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy subsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and some white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s boots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were three sovereigns and about thirty shillings worth of silver, and in a locked cupboard I burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I could go forth into the world again, equipped." "Then came a curious hesitation. Was my appearance really credible? I tried myself with a little bedroom looking-glass, inspecting myself from every point of view to discover any forgotten chink, but it all seemed sound. I was grotesque to the theatrical pitch, a stage miser, but I was certainly not a physical impossibility. Gathering confidence, I took my looking-glass down into the shop, pulled down the shop blinds, and surveyed myself from every point of view with the help of the cheval glass in the corner." "I spent some minutes screwing up my courage and then unlocked the shop door and marched out into the street, leaving the little man to get out of his sheet again when he liked. In five minutes a dozen turnings intervened between me and the costumier s shop. No one appeared to notice me very pointedly. My last difficulty seemed overcome." He stopped again. "And you troubled no more about the hunchback?" said Kemp. "No," said the Invisible Man. "Nor have I heard what became of him. I suppose he untied himself or kicked himself out. The knots were pretty tight." He became silent and went to the window and stared out. "What happened when you went out into the Strand?" "Oh! disillusionment again. I thought my troubles were over. Practically I thought I had impunity to do whatever I chose, everything save to give away my secret. So I thought. Whatever I did, whatever the consequences might be, was nothing to me. I had merely to fling aside my garments and vanish. No person could hold me. I could take my money where I found it. I decided to treat myself to a sumptuous feast, and then put up at a good hotel, and accumulate a new outfit of property. I felt amazingly confident; it s not particularly pleasant recalling that I was an ass. I went into a place and was already ordering lunch, when it occurred to me that I could not eat unless I exposed my invisible face. I finished ordering the lunch, told the man I should be back in ten minutes, and went out exasperated. I don t know if you have ever been disappointed in your appetite." "Not quite so badly," said Kemp, "but I can imagine it." "I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the desire for tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a private | seeing me. I couldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with a Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet." "Tied him up in a sheet!" "Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot scared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away from the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as though I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If once he saw me he would be able to describe me" "But still," said Kemp, "in England to-day. And the man was in his own house, and you were well, robbing." "Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp, you re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my position?" "And his too," said Kemp. The Invisible Man stood up sharply. "What do you mean to say?" Kemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked himself. "I suppose, after all," he said with a sudden change of manner, "the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still" "Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild too hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver, locking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t blame me, do you? You don t blame me?" "I never blame anyone,"<|quote|>said Kemp.</|quote|>"It s quite out of fashion. What did you do next?" "I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than sufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then went up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room containing the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace curtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out through their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with the brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself, dazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom, a four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with spots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind me. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my position again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used, I suppose, in cleaning the garments." "I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback had been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person. Everything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the clothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a handbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and sticking-plaster." "I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was to show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage of this lay in the | The Invisible Man |
"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice." | Jem Wimble | at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up | hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards | Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What | they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting | say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, | of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few | loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice. "Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.--Mas' Don!" "Yes." "What! Ha' you been there all the time?" "Yes." "What yer been doing of?" "Laughing." "Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?" "Yes." "Arn't it good?" "Glorious!" "I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?" "Hear you? Yes.--How delicious and restful it feels." "Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home." As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene--the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface. As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath. Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern. Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth. In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger. Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death. "Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, `It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?" "Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper. "Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup." "Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!" Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer. "They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this." "What are you going to do, Jem?" "Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun." "Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back. But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out. "Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't | transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing--a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth--and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look. Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration. "I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and--well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!" Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke. "Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?" "Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?" "I suppose you look just about the same, Jem." "Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting `pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?" "Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away." "Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?" "I should say they would." "Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?" "Sulphur." "What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot." "No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur." "So's all sulphur nat'ral." "But I mean this is where it is found, or comes." "G'long with you." "It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot." "What, like it is at Bath?" "To be sure."<|quote|>"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."</|quote|>Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a _whare_ and furnished with a good substantial meal. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION. "It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling." "What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite. "Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking." The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth. "It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says `my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him." "Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem." "Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?" "I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem." "Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?" The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the _whare_. "Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise. "Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone." "Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly. "Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the _whare_ to return directly with the dried garments. Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen. Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger. For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant | Don Lavington |
Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully. | No speaker | about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few | better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, | always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, | now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife | a head and giving a plaster, truly!" Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from one's self. So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, | which she had not been able to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then returned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting it any more. He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great. This was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done. As to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one style by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to work on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had been the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that its effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how long Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! The Admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming-- "Ay, a very bad business indeed. A new sort of way this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it, Miss Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!" Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from one's self. So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I never go near." Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say-- "The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give him my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter. And take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this. Pray say so, with my compliments. He will be glad to hear it." Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be going away for | could not tell how, and brought a rather improving account of Louisa. At the end of that period, Lady Russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, "I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house? It will be some trial to us both." Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing-- "I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it." She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel that they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better hands than its owners'. These convictions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the well-known apartments. In such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, "These rooms ought to belong only to us. Oh, how fallen in their destination! How unworthily occupied! An ancient family to be so driven away! Strangers filling their place!" No, except when she thought of her mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of that description to heave. Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was particular attention. The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that Captain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since the accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been able to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then returned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting it any more. He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great. This was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done. As to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one style by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to work on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had been the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that its effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how long Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! The Admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming-- "Ay, a very bad business indeed. A new sort of way this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it, Miss Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!" Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from one's self. So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I never go near." Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say-- "The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give him my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter. And take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this. Pray say so, with my compliments. He will be glad to hear it." Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north of the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady Russell would be removing to Bath. So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. Everything was safe enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject. Chapter 14 Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and Mrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to the Lodge. They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head, though clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be altogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she might be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who must return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas holidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them. They had been all in lodgings together. Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs Harville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply from Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the Harvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner every day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each side as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable. Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. Charles Hayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined with the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at first Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then, she had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out whose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day, there had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles, and she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that the | head, is not it, Miss Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!" Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."<|quote|>Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.</|quote|>"We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from one's self. So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I never go near." Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say-- "The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give him my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is | Persuasion |
"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight." | Jem Wimble | as if utterly wearied out.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>Jaded, their clothes torn in | their left, and came down as if utterly wearied out.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>Jaded, their clothes torn in all directions, coated with mud, | 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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 | we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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 | Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away. "Why, Mas' Don," said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," 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, 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.<|quote|>"Look at 'em, Mas' Don; they've been having a fight."</|quote|>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. "Rather an absurd story that, Jones--about the boathook," said the captain as he stepped on board. "Mind it is | Don Lavington |
"Now, I'll manage better this time," | Alice | to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and | the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little | one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked | saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at | memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had | as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, | little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry; "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--" "What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. "They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. "They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked; "they'd have been ill." "So they were," said the Dormouse; "_very_ ill." Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: "But why did they live at the bottom of a well?" "Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. "I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more." "You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing." "Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice. "Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly. Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?" The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, "It was a treacle-well." "There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself." "No, please go on!" Alice said very humbly; "I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be _one_." "One, indeed!" said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--" "What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. "Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--" At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out "The Queen! The Queen!" and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen. First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS. Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; "and besides, what would be the use of a procession," thought she, "if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn't see it?" So she stood still where she was, and waited. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely "Who is this?" She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. "Idiot!" said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, "What's your name, child?" "My name is Alice, so please your Majesty," said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, "Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all. I needn't be afraid of them!" "And who are _these?_" said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children. "How should _I_ know?" said Alice, surprised at her own courage. "It's no business of _mine_." The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed "Off with | the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. "I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter: "let's all move one place on." He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?" "You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?" "But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. "Of course they were," said the Dormouse; "--well in." This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. "They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--" "Why with an M?" said Alice. "Why not?" said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: "--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say things are" "much of a muchness" "--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?" "Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think--" "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again!" said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. "That's very curious!" she thought. "But everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once." And in she went. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.<|quote|>"Now, I'll manage better this time,"</|quote|>she said to herself, and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_--she found herself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, "Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!" "I couldn't help it," said Five, in a sulky tone; "Seven jogged my elbow." On which Seven looked up and said, "That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!" "_You'd_ better not talk!" said Five. "I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!" "What for?" said the one who had spoken first. "That's none of _your_ business, Two!" said Seven. "Yes, it _is_ his business!" said Five, "and I'll tell him--it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions." Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun "Well, of all the unjust things--" when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low. "Would you tell me," said Alice, a little timidly, "why you are painting those roses?" Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a _red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter. | No speaker | slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here | where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he | "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as | a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that | end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?" "No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled | the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?" "No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem's muscles reaching to his hands. Then all at once the rope became slack, as if the tension had been removed, and Don turned faint with horror. "It's broken!" he panted; and he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join | true," said Jem; and going quickly to the trap, he laid his ear to the crack and listened. "All right, my lad. Have it out," he said; and the sacks were cast aside, and the rope withdrawn. "Will it bear us, Jem?" "I'm going to try first, and if it'll bear me it'll bear you." "But you can't get up there." "No, but you can, my lad; and when you're there you can fasten the rope to that cross-bar, and then I can soon be with you. Ready?" "Wait till I've got off my shoes." "That's right; stick 'em in your pockets, my lad. Now then, ready?" Don signified his readiness. Jem laid him a back up at the end wall. Don mounted, and then jumped down again. "What's the matter?" "I haven't got the rope." "My: what a head I have!" cried Jem, as Don tightly knotted the rope about his waist; and then, mounting on his companion's back once more, was borne very slowly, steadying himself by the sloping roof, till the window was reached. "Hold fast, Jem." "Right it is, my lad." There was a clicking of the iron fastening, the window was thrust up higher and higher, till it was to the full extent of the ratchet support, and then by passing one arm over the light cross-beam, which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?" "No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem's muscles reaching to his hands. Then all at once the rope became slack, as if the tension had been removed, and Don turned faint with horror. "It's broken!" he panted; and he strained over as far as he could without falling to hear the dull thud of his companion's fall. Thoughts fly fast, and in a moment of time Don had seen poor Jem lying crushed below, picked up, and had borne the news to his little wife. But before he had gone any further, the rope was drawn tight once more, and as he held it, there came to thrill his nerves three distinct jerks. "It's all right!" he panted; and grasped the rope with both hands. "Now then," he thought, "it only wants a little courage, and I can slide down and join him, and then we're free." Yes; but it required a good deal of resolution to make the venture. "Suppose Jem's weight had unwound the rope; suppose it should break; suppose--" "Oh, what a coward I am!" he muttered; and swinging his leg free, he lay upon his face for a moment, right upon the sloping tiles and then let the rope glide through his hands. It was very easy work down that slope, only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No, no, Mas' Don. Back! Back! Don't come down." Then, as he hung, there came the panting and noise of a terrible struggle far below. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. PRISONERS AGAIN. Don's grasp tightened on the rope, and as he lay there, half on, half off the slope, listening, with the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, he heard from below shouts, the trampling of feet and struggling. "They've attacked Jem," he thought. "What shall I do? Go to his help?" Before he could come to a decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the | which divided the opening in two, Don was able to raise himself, and throw his leg over the front of the opening, so that the next minute he was sitting on the edge with one leg down the sloping roof, and the other hanging inside, but in a very awkward position, on account of the broad skylight. "Can't you open it more?" said Jem. "No; that's as far as the fastening will hold it up." "Push it right over, Mas' Don, so as it may lie back against the roof. Mind what you're doing, so as you don't slip. But you'll be all right. I've got the rope, and won't let it go." Don did as he was told, taking tightly hold of the long cross central bar, and placing his knees, and then his feet, against the front of the opening, so that he was in the position of a four-footed animal. Then his back raised up the hinged skylight higher and higher, till, holding on to the cross-bar with one hand, and the ratchet fastening with the other, he thrust up and up, till the skylight was perpendicular, and he paused, panting with the exertion. "All right, Mas' Don; I've got the rope. Now lower it down gently, till it lies flat on the slope. That's the way; steady! Steady!" _Bang_! _crash_! _jingle_! "Oh, Mas' Don!" "I couldn't help it, Jem; the iron fastening came out. The wood's rotten." For the skylight had fallen back with a crash, and some of the broken glass came musically jingling down, some of it sliding along the tiles, and dropping into the alley below. There was a dead silence, neither of the would-be evaders of the enforced king's service moving, but listening intently for the slightest sound. "Think they heared it, Mas' Don?" said Jem, at last, in a hoarse whisper. "I can't hear anything," replied Don, softly. They listened again, but all was wonderfully quiet. A distant murmur came from the busy streets, and a clock struck nine. "Why, that's Old Church," said Jem in a whisper. "We must be close down to the water side, Mas' Don." "Yes, Jem. Shall we give it up, or risk it?" "I'll show you d'reckly," said Jem. "You make that there end fast round the bar. It isn't rotten, is it?" "No," said Don, after an examination; "it seems very solid." And untying the rope from his waist, he knotted it to the little beam. The next minute Jem gave a heavy drag at the rope, then a jerk, and next swung to it, going to and fro for a few seconds. "Hold a ton," whispered Jem; and reaching up as high as he could, he gripped the rope between his legs and over his ankle and foot, and apparently with the greatest ease drew himself up to the bar, threw a leg over and sat astride with his face beaming. "They sha'n't have us this time, Mas' Don," he said, running the rope rapidly through his hands until he had reached the end, when he gathered it up in rings, till he had enough to throw beyond the sloping roof. "Here goes!" he whispered; and he tossed it from him into the gathering gloom. The falling rope made a dull sound, and then there was a sharp gliding noise. One of the broken fragments of glass had been started from where it had lodged, and slid rapidly down the tiles.<|quote|>They held their breath as they waited to hear it fall tinkling beyond on the pavement; but they listened in vain, for the simple reason that it had fallen into the gutter.</|quote|>"All right, Mas' Don! Here goes!" said Jem, and he lowered the rope to its full extent. "Hadn't I better go first, and try the rope, Jem?" "What's the good o' your going first? It might break, and then what would your mother say to me? I'll go; and, as I said afore, if it bears me, it'll bear you." "But, if it breaks, what shall I say to little Sally?" "Well, I wouldn't go near her if I was you, Mas' Don. She might take on, and then it wouldn't be nice; or she mightn't take on, and that wouldn't be nice. Hist! What's that?" "Can't hear anything, Jem." "More can I. Here, shake hands, lad, case I has a tumble." "Don't, don't risk it, Jem," whispered Don, clinging to his hand. "What! After making the rope! Oh, come, Mas' Don, where's your pluck? Now then, I'm off; and when I'm down safe, I'll give three jerks at the line, and then hold it steady. Here goes--once to be ready, twice to be steady, three times to be--off!" Don's heart felt in his mouth as his companion grasped the rope tightly, and let himself glide down the steep tiled slope, till he reached the edge over the gutter; and then, as he disappeared, dissolving--so it seemed--into the gloom, Don's breath was held, and he felt a singular pain at the chest. He grasped the rope, though, as he sat astride at the lower edge of the opening; and the loosely twisted hemp seemed to palpitate and quiver as if it were one of Jem's muscles reaching to his hands. Then all at once the rope became slack, as if the tension had been removed, and Don turned faint with horror. "It's broken!" he panted; and he strained over | Don Lavington |
said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel. | No speaker | his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You | up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood | stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the | the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a | the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over | vast black eyes. But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and went to sleep again. CHAPTER III. THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village. Next day his luggage arrived through the slush and very remarkable luggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside s cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside s dog, who was sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall s legs. "Come along with those boxes," he said. "I ve been waiting long enough." And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don t want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you | his grotesque guest. "Looks a bit like a disguise, don t it? I d like to see a man s face if I had him stopping in _my_ place," said Henfrey. "But women are that trustful where strangers are concerned. He s took your rooms and he ain t even given a name, Hall." "You don t say so!" said Hall, who was a man of sluggish apprehension. "Yes," said Teddy. "By the week. Whatever he is, you can t get rid of him under the week. And he s got a lot of luggage coming to-morrow, so he says. Let s hope it won t be stones in boxes, Hall." He told Hall how his aunt at Hastings had been swindled by a stranger with empty portmanteaux. Altogether he left Hall vaguely suspicious. "Get up, old girl," said Hall. "I s pose I must see bout this." Teddy trudged on his way with his mind considerably relieved. Instead of "seeing bout it," however, Hall on his return was severely rated by his wife on the length of time he had spent in Sidderbridge, and his mild inquiries were answered snappishly and in a manner not to the point. But the seed of suspicion Teddy had sown germinated in the mind of Mr. Hall in spite of these discouragements. "You wim don t know everything," said Mr. Hall, resolved to ascertain more about the personality of his guest at the earliest possible opportunity. And after the stranger had gone to bed, which he did about half-past nine, Mr. Hall went very aggressively into the parlour and looked very hard at his wife s furniture, just to show that the stranger wasn t master there, and scrutinised closely and a little contemptuously a sheet of mathematical computations the stranger had left. When retiring for the night he instructed Mrs. Hall to look very closely at the stranger s luggage when it came next day. "You mind your own business, Hall," said Mrs. Hall, "and I ll mind mine." She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she woke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing after her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes. But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and went to sleep again. CHAPTER III. THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village. Next day his luggage arrived through the slush and very remarkable luggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside s cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside s dog, who was sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall s legs. "Come along with those boxes," he said. "I ve been waiting long enough." And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. Mr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it incredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen upstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express his impressions. "He don t want no help, he says," he said in answer to his wife s inquiry. "We d better be a-takin of his luggage in." "He ought to have it cauterised at once," said Mr. Huxter; "especially if it s at all inflamed." "I d shoot en, that s what I d do," said a lady in the group. Suddenly the dog began growling again. "Come along," cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the muffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down. "The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased." It is stated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been changed. "Was you hurt, sir?" said Fearenside. "I m rare sorry the darg" "Not a bit," said the stranger. "Never broke the skin. Hurry up with those things." He then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts. Directly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions, carried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with extraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw with an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to produce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and slender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue bottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks, large green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with glass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles with bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil bottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the table under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere. The chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite a sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were empty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of these crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a carefully packed balance. And directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window and set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw, the fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the trunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs. When Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in his work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that he did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and put the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing the state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and immediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his glasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that his eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles again, and then turned and | turned over and went to sleep again. CHAPTER III. THE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES So it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of the thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village. Next day his luggage arrived through the slush and very remarkable luggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a rational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books big, fat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible handwriting and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing objects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual curiosity at the straw glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat, coat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside s cart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to helping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside s dog, who was sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall s legs. "Come along with those boxes," he said. "I ve been waiting long enough." And he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay hands on the smaller crate. No sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it began to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps it gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand. "Whup!" cried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside howled, "Lie down!" and snatched his whip. They saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the dog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and heard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s whip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated under the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift half-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced swiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to the latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn. They heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs to his bedroom. "You brute, you!"<|quote|>said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his whip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.</|quote|>"Come here," said Fearenside "You d better." Hall had stood gaping. "He wuz bit," said Hall. "I d better go and see to en," and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the passage. "Carrier s darg," he said "bit en." He went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he pushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a naturally sympathetic turn of mind. The blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most singular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a face of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of a pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back, and the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it gave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow, and a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering what it might be that he had seen. A couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed outside the "Coach and Horses." There was Fearenside telling about it all over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog didn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the general dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers from the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them saying fatuities: "Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows"; " Tasn t right _have_ such dargs"; "Whad _e_ bite n for, then?" and so forth. | The Invisible Man |
"It has the look of a pub," | Bill Gorton | do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to | the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I | been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our | of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, | Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my | damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned | the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. CHAPTER 13 One morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled. "Good morning," he said. "Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine." The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: DEAR JAKE, We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don't know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it's not so easy. Love to all the chaps, MICHAEL. "What day of the week is it?" I asked Harris. "Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains." "Yes. We've been here nearly a week." "I hope you're not thinking of leaving?" "Yes. We'll go in on the afternoon bus, I'm afraid." "What a rotten business. I had hoped we'd all have another go at the Irati together." "We have to go _into_ Pamplona. We're meeting people there." "What rotten luck for me. We've had a jolly time here at Burguete." "Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there's going to be a damned fine fiesta." "I'd like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I'd best stop on here, though. I've not much more time to fish." "You want those big ones in the Irati." "I say, I do, you know. They're enormous trout there." "I'd like to try them once more." "Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap." "We really have to get into town," I said. "What a pity." After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a telegram out of the leather wallet that hung against her skirt. "Por ustedes?" I looked at it. The address was: "Barnes, Burguete." "Yes. It's for us." She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come on and utilize another glass," I said. "Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can't know. That's all." "Drink up, Harris." We walked back down the road from Roncesvalles with Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his address in London and his club and his business address, and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. "I say, Harris--" I began. "No, no!" he said. He was climbing down from the bus. "They're not first-rate flies at all. I only thought if you fished them some time it might remind you of what a good time we had." The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post-office. He waved. As we started along the road he turned and walked back toward the inn. "Say, wasn't that Harris nice?" Bill said. "I think he really did have a good time." "Harris? You bet he did." "I wish he'd come into Pamplona." "He wanted to fish." "Yes. You couldn't tell how English would mix with each other, anyway." "I suppose not." We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the plaza they were stringing electric-light wires to light the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the bus stopped, and a customs officer for the town made all the people getting down from the bus open their bundles on the sidewalk. We went into the hotel and on the stairs I met Montoya. He shook hands with us, smiling in his embarrassed way. "Your friends are here," he said. "Mr. Campbell?" "Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ashley." He smiled as though there were something I would hear about. "When did they get in?" "Yesterday. I've saved you the rooms you had." "That's fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room on the plaza?" "Yes. All the rooms we looked at." "Where are our friends now?" "I think they went to the pelota." "And how about the bulls?" Montoya smiled. "To-night," he said. "To-night at seven o'clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-morrow come the Miuras. Do you all go down?" "Oh, yes. They've never seen a desencajonada." Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. "I'll see you there." He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull-fighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about. He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand. "Your friend, is he aficionado, too?" Montoya smiled at Bill. "Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the San Fermines." "Yes?" Montoya politely disbelieved. "But he's not aficionado like you." He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. "Yes," I said. "He's a real aficionado." "But he's not aficionado like you are." Aficion means passion. An aficionado is one who is passionate about the bull-fights. All the good bull-fighters stayed | gave her a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: "Vengo Jueves Cohn." I handed it to Bill. "What does the word Cohn mean?" he asked. "What a lousy telegram!" I said. "He could send ten words for the same price." 'I come Thursday.' "That gives you a lot of dope, doesn't it?" "It gives you all the dope that's of interest to Cohn." "We're going in, anyway," I said. "There's no use trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before the fiesta. Should we answer it?" "We might as well," said Bill. "There's no need for us to be snooty." We walked up to the post-office and asked for a telegraph blank. "What will we say?" Bill asked. "'Arriving to-night.' That's enough." We paid for the message and walked back to the inn. Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Roncesvalles. We went through the monastery. "It's a remarkable place," Harris said, when we came out. "But you know I'm not much on those sort of places." "Me either," Bill said. "It's a remarkable place, though," Harris said. "I wouldn't not have seen it. I'd been intending coming up each day." "It isn't the same as fishing, though, is it?" Bill asked. He liked Harris. "I say not." We were standing in front of the old chapel of the monastery. "Isn't that a pub across the way?" Harris asked. "Or do my eyes deceive me?"<|quote|>"It has the look of a pub,"</|quote|>Bill said. "It looks to me like a pub," I said. "I say," said Harris, "let's utilize it." He had taken up utilizing from Bill. We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the innkeeper would not take our money. "I say. You don't know what it's meant to me to have you chaps up here." "We've had a grand time, Harris." Harris was a little tight. "I say. Really you don't know how much it means. I've not had much fun since the war." "We'll fish together again, some time. Don't you forget it, Harris." "We must. We _have_ had such a jolly good time." "How about another bottle around?" "Jolly good idea," said Harris. "This is mine," said Bill. "Or we don't drink it." "I wish you'd let me pay for it. It _does_ give me pleasure, you know." "This is going to give me pleasure," Bill said. The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. "I say. You know this does utilize well." Bill slapped him on the back. "Good old Harris." "I say. You know my name isn't really Harris. It's Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you know." "Good old Wilson-Harris," Bill said. "We call you Harris because we're so fond of you." "I say, Barnes. You don't know what this all means to me." "Come | The Sun Also Rises |
“Jay Gatsby” | No speaker | Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass | of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and | He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he | inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it | a minute and then turned out the light.” His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her | left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing. VIII I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late. Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. “Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.” His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions. But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand. He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere | felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing. VIII I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late. Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. “Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.” His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions. But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand. He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world. But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all. When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her … Well, there I was, way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?” On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she | I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing. VIII I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late. Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. “Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.” His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.” “Go away now, old sport?” “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free. It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because<|quote|>“Jay Gatsby”</|quote|>had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions. But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand. He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world. But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all. When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the | The Great Gatsby |
"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing." | Anne Shirley | a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much | she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What | I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good | I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had | had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know," said Marilla wearily, looking up. "I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her | saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know," said Marilla wearily, looking up. "I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla's face. "What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she said: "He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it." "Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" Anne wondered if she had heard aright. "Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell Green Gables!" "Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is I can't. I may lose my sight altogether; and anyway I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought | insists that I must go in and have my eyes examined. I suppose I'd better go and have it over. I'll be more than thankful if the man can give me the right kind of glasses to suit my eyes. You won't mind staying here alone while I'm away, will you? Martin will have to drive me in and there's ironing and baking to do." "I shall be all right. Diana will come over for company for me. I shall attend to the ironing and baking beautifully--you needn't fear that I'll starch the handkerchiefs or flavor the cake with liniment." Marilla laughed. "What a girl you were for making mistakes in them days, Anne. You were always getting into scrapes. I did use to think you were possessed. Do you mind the time you dyed your hair?" "Yes, indeed. I shall never forget it," smiled Anne, touching the heavy braid of hair that was wound about her shapely head. "I laugh a little now sometimes when I think what a worry my hair used to be to me--but I don't laugh _much_, because it was a very real trouble then. I did suffer terribly over my hair and my freckles. My freckles are really gone; and people are nice enough to tell me my hair is auburn now--all but Josie Pye. She informed me yesterday that she really thought it was redder than ever, or at least my black dress made it look redder, and she asked me if people who had red hair ever got used to having it. Marilla, I've almost decided to give up trying to like Josie Pye. I've made what I would once have called a heroic effort to like her, but Josie Pye won't _be_ liked." "Josie is a Pye," said Marilla sharply, "so she can't help being disagreeable. I suppose people of that kind serve some useful purpose in society, but I must say I don't know what it is any more than I know the use of thistles. Is Josie going to teach?" "No, she is going back to Queen's next year. So are Moody Spurgeon and Charlie Sloane. Jane and Ruby are going to teach and they have both got schools--Jane at Newbridge and Ruby at some place up west." "Gilbert Blythe is going to teach too, isn't he?" "Yes" "--briefly. "What a nice-looking fellow he is," said Marilla absently. "I saw him in church last Sunday and he seemed so tall and manly. He looks a lot like his father did at the same age. John Blythe was a nice boy. We used to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know," said Marilla wearily, looking up. "I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla's face. "What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she said: "He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it." "Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" Anne wondered if she had heard aright. "Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell Green Gables!" "Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is I can't. I may lose my sight altogether; and anyway I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd have to sell my home. But things would only go behind worse and worse all the time, till nobody would want to buy it. Every cent of our money went in that bank; and there's some notes Matthew gave last fall to pay. Mrs. Lynde advises me to sell the farm and board somewhere--with her I suppose. It won't bring much--it's small and the buildings are old. But it'll be enough for me to live on I reckon. I'm thankful you're provided for with that scholarship, Anne. I'm sorry you won't have a home to come to in your vacations, that's all, but I suppose you'll manage somehow." Marilla broke down and wept bitterly. "You mustn't sell Green Gables," said Anne resolutely. "Oh, Anne, I wish I didn't have to. But you can see for yourself. I can't stay here alone. I'd go crazy with trouble and loneliness. And my sight would go--I know it would." "You won't have to stay here alone, Marilla. I'll be with you. I'm not going to Redmond." "Not going to Redmond!" Marilla lifted her worn face from her hands and looked at Anne. "Why, what do you mean?" "Just what I say. I'm not going to take the scholarship. I decided so the night after you came home from town. You surely don't think I could leave you alone in your trouble, Marilla, after all you've done for me. I've been thinking and planning. Let me tell you my plans. Mr. Barry wants to rent the farm for next year. So you won't have any bother over that. And I'm going to teach. I've applied for the school here--but I don't expect to get it for I understand the trustees have promised it to Gilbert Blythe. But I can have the Carmody school--Mr. Blair told me so last night at the store. Of course that won't be quite as nice or convenient as if I had the Avonlea school. But I can board home and drive myself over to Carmody and back, in the warm weather at least. And even in winter I can come home Fridays. We'll keep a horse for that. Oh, I have it all planned out, Marilla. And I'll read to you and keep you cheered up. You sha'n't be dull or lonesome. And we'll be real cozy and happy here together, | to be real good friends, he and I. People called him my beau." Anne looked up with swift interest. "Oh, Marilla--and what happened?--why didn't you--" "We had a quarrel. I wouldn't forgive him when he asked me to. I meant to, after awhile--but I was sulky and angry and I wanted to punish him first. He never came back--the Blythes were all mighty independent. But I always felt--rather sorry. I've always kind of wished I'd forgiven him when I had the chance." "So you've had a bit of romance in your life, too," said Anne softly. "Yes, I suppose you might call it that. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you? But you never can tell about people from their outsides. Everybody has forgot about me and John. I'd forgotten myself. But it all came back to me when I saw Gilbert last Sunday." CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Bend in the road |MARILLA went to town the next day and returned in the evening. Anne had gone over to Orchard Slope with Diana and came back to find Marilla in the kitchen, sitting by the table with her head leaning on her hand. Something in her dejected attitude struck a chill to Anne's heart. She had never seen Marilla sit limply inert like that. "Are you very tired, Marilla?" "Yes--no--I don't know," said Marilla wearily, looking up. "I suppose I am tired but I haven't thought about it. It's not that." "Did you see the oculist? What did he say?" asked Anne anxiously. "Yes, I saw him. He examined my eyes. He says that if I give up all reading and sewing entirely and any kind of work that strains the eyes, and if I'm careful not to cry, and if I wear the glasses he's given me he thinks my eyes may not get any worse and my headaches will be cured. But if I don't he says I'll certainly be stone-blind in six months. Blind! Anne, just think of it!" For a minute Anne, after her first quick exclamation of dismay, was silent. It seemed to her that she could _not_ speak. Then she said bravely, but with a catch in her voice:<|quote|>"Marilla, _don't_ think of it. You know he has given you hope. If you are careful you won't lose your sight altogether; and if his glasses cure your headaches it will be a great thing."</|quote|>"I don't call it much hope," said Marilla bitterly. "What am I to live for if I can't read or sew or do anything like that? I might as well be blind--or dead. And as for crying, I can't help that when I get lonesome. But there, it's no good talking about it. If you'll get me a cup of tea I'll be thankful. I'm about done out. Don't say anything about this to any one for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it." When Marilla had eaten her lunch Anne persuaded her to go to bed. Then Anne went herself to the east gable and sat down by her window in the darkness alone with her tears and her heaviness of heart. How sadly things had changed since she had sat there the night after coming home! Then she had been full of hope and joy and the future had looked rosy with promise. Anne felt as if she had lived years since then, but before she went to bed there was a smile on her lips and peace in her heart. She had looked her duty courageously in the face and found it a friend--as duty ever is when we meet it frankly. One afternoon a few days later Marilla came slowly in from the front yard where she had been talking to a caller--a man whom Anne knew by sight as Sadler from Carmody. Anne wondered what he could have been saying to bring that look to Marilla's face. "What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" Marilla sat down by the window and looked at Anne. There were tears in her eyes in defiance of the oculist's prohibition and her voice broke as she said: "He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it." "Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" Anne wondered if she had heard aright. "Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell Green Gables!" "Anne, I don't know what else is to be done. I've thought it all over. If my eyes were strong I could stay here and make out to look after things and manage, with a good hired man. But as it is I can't. I may lose my sight altogether; and anyway I'll not be fit to run things. Oh, I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd have to sell my home. But things | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Albert," | Paul | go?" I ask. "To Cologne."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>I say, "we stick together; | "How far does the train go?" I ask. "To Cologne."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>I say, "we stick together; you see." On the sister's | 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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. | 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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 smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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 | glance at the bed. It is covered with clean snow-white linen, that even has the marks of the iron still on it. And my shirt has gone six weeks without being washed and is terribly muddy. "Can't you get in by yourself?" asks the sister gently. "Why yes," I say in a sweat, "but take off the bed cover first." "What for?" I feel like a pig. Must I get in there?-- "It will get----" I hesitate. "A little bit dirty?" she suggests helpfully. "That doesn't matter, we will wash it again afterwards." "No, no, not that----" I say excitedly. I am not equal to such overwhelming refinement. "When you have been lying out there in the trenches, surely we can wash a sheet," she goes on. I look at her, she is young and crisp, spotless and neat, like everything here; a man cannot realize that it isn't for officers only, and feels himself strange and in some way even alarmed. All the same, the woman is a tormentor, she is going to force me to say it. "It is only----" I try again, surely she must know what I mean. "What is it then?" "Because of the lice," I bawl out at last. She laughs. "Well, they must have a good day for once, too." Now I don't care any more. I scramble into bed and pull up the covers. A hand gropes over the bed-cover. The sergeant-major. He goes off with the cigars. An hour later we notice that we are moving. At night I cannot sleep. Kropp is restless too. The train rides easily over the rails. I cannot realize it all yet; a bed, a train, home. "Albert!" I whisper. "Yes----" "Do you know where the latrine is?" "Over to the right of the door, I think." "I'm going to have a look." It is dark, I grope for the edge of the bed and cautiously try to slide down. But my foot finds no support, I begin to slip, the plaster leg is no help, and with a crash I lie on the floor. "Damn!" I say. "Have you bumped yourself?" asks Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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!" I say, "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 | Kropp. "You could hear that well enough for yourself," I growl, "my head----" A door opens in the rear of the car. The sister comes with a light and looks at me. "He has fallen out of bed----" She feels my pulse and smooths my forehead. "You haven't any fever, though." "No." I 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."<|quote|>"Albert,"</|quote|>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 | All Quiet on the Western Front |
“Biloxi,” | Tom | Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man | “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and | compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get | this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave | bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” | us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced | and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, | opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”<|quote|>“Biloxi,”</|quote|>he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in | The Great Gatsby |
"Did you say a sailor?" | Dorian Gray | "A sailor?" he cried out.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. He looks as | heart had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a | 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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not | 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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it | 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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don t like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I ll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, | 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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don t like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I ll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open and entered. On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called | come back, Duchess." "I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!" "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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don t like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I ll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open and entered. On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at the door-post for support. When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane. He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. CHAPTER XIX. "There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray, don t change." Dorian Gray shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good actions yesterday." "Where were you yesterday?" "In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself." "My dear boy," said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian. "I have known something of both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I have altered." "You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into his plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them. "I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don t you? How long ago that seems! Well, | 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.<|quote|>"Did you say a sailor?"</|quote|>"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 him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his name?" "Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we think." Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I must see it at once." "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don t like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck." "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I ll go to the stables myself. It will save time." In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open and entered. On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at the door-post for support. When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"Mr. Harthouse," | Young Thomas | them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; | Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better | more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged | replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other, "it may be of more use | easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other, "it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself." "Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish | _is_ a fellow to do for money, and where _am_ I to look for it, if not to my sister?" He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat. "But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it" "Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It's of no use pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other, "it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself." "Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some | his head sullenly too, "you can't tell her that I ever praised her for being mercenary. I may have praised her for being the contrary, and I should do it again, if I had as good reason. However, never mind this now; it's not very interesting to you, and I am sick of the subject." They walked on to the house, where Louisa quitted her visitor's arm and went in. He stood looking after her, as she ascended the steps, and passed into the shadow of the door; then put his hand upon her brother's shoulder again, and invited him with a confidential nod to a walk in the garden. "Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you." They had stopped among a disorder of roses it was part of Mr. Bounderby's humility to keep Nickits's roses on a reduced scale and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking buds and picking them to pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee. They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them. "Tom, what's the matter?" "Oh! Mr. Harthouse," said Tom with a groan, "I am hard up, and bothered out of my life." "My good fellow, so am I." "You!" returned Tom. "You are the picture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have got myself into what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only have done it." He took to biting the rosebuds now, and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man's. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air. "Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know you have." "Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here's old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here's my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here's my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What _is_ a fellow to do for money, and where _am_ I to look for it, if not to my sister?" He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat. "But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it" "Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It's of no use pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn't marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't she get what I want, out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn't she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other, "it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself." "Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory! And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships. When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he | a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don't know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct." There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island. "My dear Tom," said Harthouse, "let me try to be your banker." "For God's sake," replied Tom, suddenly, "don't talk about bankers!" And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white. Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised he could as soon have been affected but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College. "What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are."<|quote|>"Mr. Harthouse,"</|quote|>returned Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made: "it's too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you're a true friend." A true friend! "Whelp, whelp!" thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; "what an Ass you are!" "And I take your offer as a great kindness," said Tom, grasping his hand. "As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse." "Well," returned the other, "it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself." "Thank you," said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. "I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse." "Now, you see, Tom," said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland: "every man is selfish in everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. I am desperately intent;" the languor of his desperation being quite tropical; "on your softening towards your sister which you ought to do; and on your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart | Hard Times |
thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" | No speaker | the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" | round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she | the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that | pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: | a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm | the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till | in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. "How queer it seems," Alice said to herself, "to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: "'Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' 'Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.' Only I don't think," Alice went on, "that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!" By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time with the words "DRINK ME," but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips. "I know _something_ interesting is sure to happen," she said to herself, "whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!" "So you did, old fellow!" said the others. "We must burn the house down!" said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called out as loud as she could, "If you do, I'll set Dinah at you!" There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, "I wonder what they _will_ do next! If they had any sense, they'd take the roof off." After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say, "A barrowful will do, to begin with." "A barrowful of _what?_" thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face. "I'll put a stop to this," she said to herself, and shouted out, "You'd better not do that again!" which produced another dead silence. Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. "If I eat one of these cakes," she thought, "it's sure to make _some_ change in my size; and as it can't possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I suppose." So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, | no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!"<|quote|>thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--"</|quote|>"Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!" and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. "What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
I observed coldly. | No speaker | what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that | Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the | Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two | hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, | watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty | Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him. "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully. "Have you?" "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you from Poirot." "Yes?" "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he | believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp." "No," said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him. "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully. "Have you?" "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you from Poirot." "Yes?" "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say? "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.'" "What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment. "Don't you know?" "Not in the least. Do you?" I was compelled to shake my head. "What extra coffee-cup?" "I don't know." "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shook my head. "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it." "Well, what am I to tell Poirot?" "Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's double Dutch to me." "All right." I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly called me back. "I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?" " Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "Are you sure you don't know what it means?" I asked him earnestly. He shook his head. "No," he said musingly, "I don't. I I wish I did." The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the table. By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish. "Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I have a little idea" Poirot's "little ideas" were becoming a perfect byword "and would like to ask one or two questions." "Of me? Certainly." "You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: the door leading into Mrs. Inglethorp's room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia, it was bolted, you say?" "Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary Cavendish, rather surprised. "I said so at the inquest." "Bolted?" "Yes." She looked perplexed. "I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was bolted, | are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,"<|quote|>I observed coldly.</|quote|>"Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him. "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully. "Have you?" "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you from Poirot." "Yes?" "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere. "Well?" There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say? "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " Find the extra coffee-cup, and | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One." | Professor De Worms | below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the | his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young | cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking | head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in | blue card upon the table. The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice. "I'm awfully glad you chaps have come so early," he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, "for we can all start for France together. Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form. Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk." "All the blue devils in blue hell," said Syme, "contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that | them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby. "I knew I was a poet," cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. "I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones." "It certainly does make a queer difference," said the Professor shakily. "But as regards the project of Dr. Bull" "Project be damned!" roared Syme, beside himself. "Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don't suppose, do you, that that thing's an anarchist?" "Syme!" cried the other in an apprehensive agony. "Why, by God," said Syme, "I'll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There's my card," and he flung down the blue card upon the table. The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice. "I'm awfully glad you chaps have come so early," he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, "for we can all start for France together. Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form. Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk." "All the blue devils in blue hell," said Syme, "contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, | red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected "Dr. Bull!" The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme. "Dr. Bull," said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, "would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?" The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move. For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles. Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking. The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene. The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby. "I knew I was a poet," cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. "I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones." "It certainly does make a queer difference," said the Professor shakily. "But as regards the project of Dr. Bull" "Project be damned!" roared Syme, beside himself. "Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don't suppose, do you, that that thing's an anarchist?" "Syme!" cried the other in an apprehensive agony. "Why, by God," said Syme, "I'll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There's my card," and he flung down the blue card upon the table. The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice. "I'm awfully glad you chaps have come so early," he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, "for we can all start for France together. Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form. Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk." "All the blue devils in blue hell," said Syme, "contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him. "How was that?" he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely. "I had already arranged," he explained, "to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I'll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once." "So you sent the Marquis off, I understand," asked the Professor. "Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?" "Yes," answered the new guide, "I've timed it all. He'll still be at Calais when we arrive." "But when we do catch him at Calais," said the Professor, "what are | queer difference," said the Professor shakily. "But as regards the project of Dr. Bull" "Project be damned!" roared Syme, beside himself. "Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don't suppose, do you, that that thing's an anarchist?" "Syme!" cried the other in an apprehensive agony. "Why, by God," said Syme, "I'll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There's my card," and he flung down the blue card upon the table. The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice. "I'm awfully glad you chaps have come so early," he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, "for we can all start for France together. Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form. Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang. "But Lord God Almighty," he cried out, "if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!" "We might have fought easily," said Bull; "we were four against three." The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below. "No," said the voice,<|quote|>"we were not four against three we were not so lucky. We were four against One."</|quote|>The others went down the stairs in silence. The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder. "It is jolly to get some pals," he said. "I've been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk." "All the blue devils in blue hell," said Syme, "contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles." The young man laughed delightedly. "Wasn't it a rag?" he said. "Such a simple idea not my own. I haven't got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark." A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,' "he said positively." Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.' "And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it." "What was that?" asked Syme. "I'll tell you," answered the man in spectacles. "This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks by God, he never saw me at all!" Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him. "How was that?" he asked. "I thought you talked to him." "So I did," said Bull brightly; "but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that." "I could not have conceived it," said Syme gravely. "It is indeed a new idea," said the Professor. Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"Pray be seated, mademoiselle." | Hercule Poirot | He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have | soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many | front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object | of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at | had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds. "Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?" "Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in Dorcas is here." "_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye." "Yes, but this affair is more important." "And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice." "Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it | fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before. I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas. When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty. "Poirot," I cried, "where are you?" "I am here, my friend." He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds. "Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?" "Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in Dorcas is here." "_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye." "Yes, but this affair is more important." "And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice." "Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold." Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday" "What time was that?" "I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly." You have lied to me, and deceived me,' "she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did but she answered:" How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went | turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once but that is not to the point." "It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle." "You brought only one candle into the room?" "Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here" I indicated the mantelpiece "that absolutely paralysed him." "That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive" his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall "but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp." "Then," I said, "what do you deduce?" To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties. "And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa." "No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper. "There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?" I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: [Illustration] I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. "Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before. I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas. When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty. "Poirot," I cried, "where are you?" "I am here, my friend." He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds. "Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?" "Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in Dorcas is here." "_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye." "Yes, but this affair is more important." "And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice." "Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold." Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday" "What time was that?" "I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly." You have lied to me, and deceived me,' "she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did but she answered:" How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it." "But she had a duplicate key?" "Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so | the present." He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless" he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns and it destroys. But by chance there might be let us see!" Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation. "The forceps, Hastings!" I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper. "There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?" I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: [Illustration] I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. "Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!" "Exactly." I looked up at him sharply. "You are not surprised?" "No," he said gravely, "I expected it." I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. "Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid Dorcas, her name is, is it not?" We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before. I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas. When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty. "Poirot," I cried, "where are you?" "I am here, my friend." He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds. "Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?" "Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in Dorcas is here." "_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye." "Yes, but this affair is more important." "And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line. "You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas." Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant. In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.<|quote|>"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."</|quote|>"Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice." "Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold." Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"A young one," | Fagin | old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do | to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," | go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what | of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do | will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! | delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!" Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left | she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited." These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed _that_. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?" Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!" Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London. It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them. Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room. "Is that the woman?" he asked, scarcely above his breath. Fagin nodded yes. "I can't see her face well," whispered Noah. "She is looking down, and the candle is behind her." "Stay there," whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face. "I see her now," cried the spy. "Plainly?" "I should know her among a thousand." He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered. "Hist!" cried the lad who held the door. "Dow." Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out. "To the left," whispered the lad; "take the left had, and keep od the other side." He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind her, pass on. She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed: with his eye upon her. CHAPTER XLVI. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on | yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece." "Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.<|quote|>"A young one,"</|quote|>replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated | Oliver Twist |
"Sit down," | Dr. Aziz | coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What | with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly | to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he | indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are | doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire | there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn't die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence." "Oh, that is true, how true!" said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised. "Does Mr. Fielding think it's true?." "Think which true? The world isn't dying. I'm certain of that!" "No, no the existence of Providence." "Well, I don't believe in Providence." "But how then can you believe in God?" asked Syed Mohammed. "I don't believe in God." A tiny movement as of "I told you so!" | "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn't die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence." "Oh, that is true, how true!" said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised. "Does Mr. Fielding think it's true?." "Think which true? The world isn't dying. I'm certain of that!" "No, no the existence of Providence." "Well, I don't believe in Providence." "But how then can you believe in God?" asked Syed Mohammed. "I don't believe in God." A tiny movement as of "I told you so!" passed round the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scandalized. "Is it correct that most are atheists in England now?" Hamidullah enquired. "The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, though they don't like the name. The truth is that the West doesn't bother much over belief and disbelief in these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and I were young, much more fuss was made." "And does not morality also decline?" "It depends what you call yes, yes, I suppose morality does decline." "Excuse the question, but if this is the case, how is England justified in holding India?" There they were! Politics again. "It's a question I can't get my mind on to," he replied. "I'm out here personally because I needed a job. I cannot tell you why England is here or whether she ought to be here. It's beyond me." "Well-qualified Indians also need jobs in the educational." "I guess they do; I got in first," said Fielding, smiling. "Then excuse me again is it fair an Englishman should occupy one when Indians are available? Of course I mean nothing personally. Personally we are delighted you should be here, and we benefit greatly by this frank talk." There is only one answer to a conversation of this type: "England holds India for her good." Yet Fielding was disinclined to give it. The zeal for honesty had eaten him up. He said, "I'm delighted to be here too that's my answer, there's my only excuse. I can't tell you anything about fairness. It mayn't have been fair I should have been born. I take up some other fellow's air, don't I, whenever I breathe? Still, I'm glad it's happened, and I'm glad I'm out here. However big a badmash one is if one's happy in consequence, that is some justification." The Indians were bewildered. The line of thought was not alien to them, but the words were too definite and bleak. Unless a sentence paid a few compliments to Justice and Morality in passing, its grammar wounded their ears and paralysed their minds. What they said and what they felt were (except in the case of affection) seldom the same. They had numerous mental conventions and when these were flouted they found it very difficult to function. Hamidullah bore up best. "And those Englishmen who are not delighted to be in India have | doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself. "Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said,<|quote|>"Sit down,"</|quote|>coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn't die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence." "Oh, that is true, how true!" said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised. "Does Mr. Fielding think it's true?." "Think which true? The world isn't dying. I'm certain of that!" "No, no the existence of Providence." "Well, I don't believe in Providence." "But how then can you believe in God?" asked Syed Mohammed. "I don't believe in God." A tiny movement as of "I told you so!" passed round the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scandalized. "Is it correct that most are atheists in England now?" Hamidullah enquired. "The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, though they don't like the name. The truth is that the West doesn't bother much over belief and disbelief in these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and I were young, much more fuss was made." "And does not morality also decline?" "It depends what you call yes, yes, I suppose morality does decline." "Excuse the question, but if this is the case, how is England justified in holding India?" There they were! Politics again. "It's a question I can't get my mind on to," he replied. "I'm out here personally because I needed a job. I cannot tell you why England is here or whether she ought to be here. It's beyond me." "Well-qualified Indians also need jobs in the educational." "I guess they do; I got in first," said Fielding, smiling. "Then excuse me again is it fair an Englishman should occupy one when Indians | A Passage To India |
"Oh, I see," | Katharine Hilbery | I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why | mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She | t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he | about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. | to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," he said. Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. He thought that she had detected | house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," he said. Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. He thought that she had detected his wish to leave her. She had discerned the break in his resolution, the blankness in the heart of his vision. It was true that he had been happier out in the street, thinking of her, than now that he was in the same room with her. He looked at her with a guilty expression on his face. But her look expressed neither disappointment nor reproach. Her pose was easy, and she seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table. Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her. "You don t believe me?" he said. His tone was humble, and made her smile at him. "As far as I understand you but what should you advise me to do with this ring?" she asked, holding it out. "I should advise you to let me keep it for you," he replied, in the same tone of half-humorous gravity. "After what you ve said, I can hardly trust you unless you ll unsay what you ve said?" "Very well. I m not in love with you." "But I think you _are_ in love with me.... As | as Rodney was in the room the proceedings of the evening had seemed to be in his charge, and had been marked by a certain unreality. Now that she was alone with Ralph she felt at once that a constraint had been taken from them both. She felt that they were alone at the bottom of the house, which rose, story upon story, upon the top of them. "Why were you waiting out there?" she asked. "For the chance of seeing you," he replied. "You would have waited all night if it hadn t been for William. It s windy too. You must have been cold. What could you see? Nothing but our windows." "It was worth it. I heard you call me." "I called you?" She had called unconsciously. "They were engaged this morning," she told him, after a pause. "You re glad?" he asked. She bent her head. "Yes, yes," she sighed. "But you don t know how good he is what he s done for me" Ralph made a sound of understanding. "You waited there last night too?" she asked. "Yes. I can wait," Denham replied. The words seemed to fill the room with an emotion which Katharine connected with the sound of distant wheels, the footsteps hurrying along the pavement, the cries of sirens hooting down the river, the darkness and the wind. She saw the upright figure standing beneath the lamp-post. "Waiting in the dark," she said, glancing at the window, as if he saw what she was seeing. "Ah, but it s different" She broke off. "I m not the person you think me. Until you realize that it s impossible" Placing her elbows on the table, she slid her ruby ring up and down her finger abstractedly. She frowned at the rows of leather-bound books opposite her. Ralph looked keenly at her. Very pale, but sternly concentrated upon her meaning, beautiful but so little aware of herself as to seem remote from him also, there was something distant and abstract about her which exalted him and chilled him at the same time. "No, you re right," he said. "I don t know you. I ve never known you." "Yet perhaps you know me better than any one else," she mused. Some detached instinct made her aware that she was gazing at a book which belonged by rights to some other part of the house. She walked over to the shelf, took it down, and returned to her seat, placing the book on the table between them. Ralph opened it and looked at the portrait of a man with a voluminous white shirt-collar, which formed the frontispiece. "I say I do know you, Katharine," he affirmed, shutting the book. "It s only for moments that I go mad." "Do you call two whole nights a moment?" "I swear to you that now, at this instant, I see you precisely as you are. No one has ever known you as I know you.... Could you have taken down that book just now if I hadn t known you?" "That s true," she replied, "but you can t think how I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," he said. Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. He thought that she had detected his wish to leave her. She had discerned the break in his resolution, the blankness in the heart of his vision. It was true that he had been happier out in the street, thinking of her, than now that he was in the same room with her. He looked at her with a guilty expression on his face. But her look expressed neither disappointment nor reproach. Her pose was easy, and she seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table. Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her. "You don t believe me?" he said. His tone was humble, and made her smile at him. "As far as I understand you but what should you advise me to do with this ring?" she asked, holding it out. "I should advise you to let me keep it for you," he replied, in the same tone of half-humorous gravity. "After what you ve said, I can hardly trust you unless you ll unsay what you ve said?" "Very well. I m not in love with you." "But I think you _are_ in love with me.... As I am with you," she added casually enough. "At least," she said slipping her ring back to its old position, "what other word describes the state we re in?" She looked at him gravely and inquiringly, as if in search of help. "It s when I m with you that I doubt it, not when I m alone," he stated. "So I thought," she replied. In order to explain to her his state of mind, Ralph recounted his experience with the photograph, the letter, and the flower picked at Kew. She listened very seriously. "And then you went raving about the streets," she mused. "Well, it s bad enough. But my state is worse than yours, because it hasn t anything to do with facts. It s an hallucination, pure and simple an intoxication.... One can be in love with pure reason?" she hazarded. "Because if you re in love with a vision, I believe that that s what I m in love with." This conclusion seemed fantastic and profoundly unsatisfactory to Ralph, but after the astonishing variations of his own sentiments during the past half-hour he could not accuse her of fanciful exaggeration. "Rodney seems to know his own mind well enough," he said almost bitterly. The music, which had ceased, had now begun again, and the melody of Mozart seemed to express the easy and exquisite love of the two upstairs. "Cassandra never doubted for a moment. But we" she glanced at him as if to ascertain his position, "we see each other only now and then" "Like lights in a storm" "In the midst of a hurricane," she concluded, as the window shook beneath the pressure of the wind. They listened to the sound in silence. Here the door opened with considerable hesitation, and Mrs. Hilbery s head appeared, at first with an air of caution, but having made sure that she had admitted herself to the dining-room and not to some more unusual region, she came completely inside and seemed in no way taken aback by the sight she saw. She seemed, as usual, bound on some quest of her own which was interrupted pleasantly but strangely by running into one of those queer, unnecessary ceremonies that other people thought fit to indulge in. "Please don t let me interrupt you, Mr." she was at a loss, as usual, for the name, and Katharine thought that | I m divided how I m at my ease with you, and how I m bewildered. The unreality the dark the waiting outside in the wind yes, when you look at me, not seeing me, and I don t see you either.... But I do see," she went on quickly, changing her position and frowning again, "heaps of things, only not you." "Tell me what you see," he urged. But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape colored upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools. "Impossible," she sighed, laughing at the ridiculous notion of putting any part of this into words. "Try, Katharine," Ralph urged her. "But I can t I m talking a sort of nonsense the sort of nonsense one talks to oneself." She was dismayed by the expression of longing and despair upon his face. "I was thinking about a mountain in the North of England," she attempted. "It s too silly I won t go on." "We were there together?" he pressed her. "No. I was alone." She seemed to be disappointing the desire of a child. His face fell. "You re always alone there?" "I can t explain." She could not explain that she was essentially alone there. "It s not a mountain in the North of England. It s an imagination a story one tells oneself. You have yours too?" "You re with me in mine. You re the thing I make up, you see."<|quote|>"Oh, I see,"</|quote|>she sighed. "That s why it s so impossible." She turned upon him almost fiercely. "You must try to stop it," she said. "I won t," he replied roughly, "because I" He stopped. He realized that the moment had come to impart that news of the utmost importance which he had tried to impart to Mary Datchet, to Rodney upon the Embankment, to the drunken tramp upon the seat. How should he offer it to Katharine? He looked quickly at her. He saw that she was only half attentive to him; only a section of her was exposed to him. The sight roused in him such desperation that he had much ado to control his impulse to rise and leave the house. Her hand lay loosely curled upon the table. He seized it and grasped it firmly as if to make sure of her existence and of his own. "Because I love you, Katharine," he said. Some roundness or warmth essential to that statement was absent from his voice, and she had merely to shake her head very slightly for him to drop her hand and turn away in shame at his own impotence. He thought that she had detected his wish to leave her. She had discerned the break in his resolution, the blankness in the heart of his vision. It was true that he had been happier out in the street, thinking of her, than now that he was in the same room with her. He looked at her with a guilty expression on his face. But her look expressed neither disappointment nor reproach. Her pose was easy, and she seemed to give effect to a mood of quiet speculation by the spinning of her ruby ring upon the polished table. Denham forgot his despair in wondering what thoughts now occupied her. "You don t believe me?" he said. His tone was humble, and made her | Night And Day |
"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet." | Fagin | I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, | and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, | acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very | I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much | though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the | on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady's return. In due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go. "Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin. "Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I an't!" With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the snap of his little finger. "Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration. "Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?" "A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close | 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 winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room. "Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to the second story. Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in the gloom above. The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone. "Why, Nance!" exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle, "how pale you are!" "Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look | 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 winking to his other pupils. "And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?" asked Tom. "No doubt at all of that, my dear." "And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it, Fagin?" pursued Tom. "Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't give it to them." "Ah!" cried Tom, triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"<|quote|>"To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing done yet."</|quote|>In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit. "Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got none to lock up, my dear ha! ha! ha! none to lock up. It's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing the key in his breast; "who's that? Listen!" The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time. "Bah!" he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear." Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was close upon the girl before he observed her. It was Monks. "Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy." The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person. "Any news?" inquired Fagin. "Great." "And and good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the other man by being too sanguine. "Not bad, any way," replied Monks with a smile. "I have been prompt enough this time. Let me have a word with you." The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps | Oliver Twist |
Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all. | No speaker | Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," | know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped | wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough | tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of | and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The | hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the | ANNE OF GREEN GABLES CHAPTER I. Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised |MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof. There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she "ran" the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts--she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices--and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables. "Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?" Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity. Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor. "We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_ weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctor's." Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity. "Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday," she said. "Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight." If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it. "Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her. "Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation. Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning | out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing eye. She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life. And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's enjoyment was spoiled. "I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."<|quote|>Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place _living_ at all.</|quote|>"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said." With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial peck of dirt. Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper. Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on | Anne Of Green Gables |
"I really have no experience," | Gabriel Syme | fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has | his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, | man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the | darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the | you like." "Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He | their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion. "I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like." "Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists. When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of | "But this is absurd!" cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon in persons of his figure and costume, "but it is intolerable! I don't know what you're doing, but you're wasting your life. You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy. Their armies are on our frontiers. Their bolt is ready to fall. A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world." "It is a chance not to be missed, certainly," assented Syme, "but still I do not quite understand. I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements. But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other. How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt. What is this anarchy?" "Do not confuse it," replied the constable, "with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring the main mass of their supporters are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section." "Oh!" said Syme. "Naturally, therefore, these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion. "I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like." "Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists. When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight. Over the whole landscape lay a luminous and unnatural discoloration, as of that disastrous twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric folly glowed in the night like a great fire. Even the common things he carried with him the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque. So this inhuman landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human. To Syme's exaggerative mind the bright, bleak houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon. But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon. The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil went comparatively slowly. The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break. It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing Cross. The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them. They were big and black against the huge white dawn. They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones | as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section." "Oh!" said Syme. "Naturally, therefore, these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion. "I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like." "Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.<|quote|>"I really have no experience,"</|quote|>he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all | The Man Who Was Thursday |
Lord John asked of the master of that seat, | No speaker | let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, | hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower | John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the | --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, | gravity of the question. “Some--yes--shouting on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as | like it!” “I happen to like nothing that I don’t enjoy,” Lord Theign rejoined with some asperity-- “and so far as I do follow the fellow he assumes on my part an interest in his expenditure of purchase-money that I neither feel nor pretend to. He doesn’t want--by what I spell out--the picture he refused at Dedborough; he may possibly want--if one reads it so--the picture on view in Bond Street; and he yet appears to make, with great emphasis, the stupid ambiguous point that these two ‘articles’ (the greatest of Morettos an ‘article’!) haven’t been ‘by now’ proved different: as if I engaged with him that I myself would so prove them!” Lord John indulged in a pause--but also in a suggestion. “He must allude to your hoping--when you allowed us to place the picture with Mackintosh--that it would show to all London in the most precious light conceivable.” “Well, if it hasn’t so shown” --and Lord Theign stared as if mystified-- “what in the world’s the meaning of this preposterous racket?” “The racket is largely,” his young friend explained, “the vociferation of the people who contradict each other about it.” On which their hostess sought to enliven the gravity of the question. “Some--yes--shouting on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him | betrayed more and more the odd pitch of the temper that had abruptly restored him with such incalculable weight to the scene of action. “Well, isn’t a fine old Moretto good enough for him; confound him?” It pulled up not a little Lord John, who yet made his point. “A fine old Moretto, you know, was exactly what he declined at Dedborough--for its comparative, strictly comparative, insignificance; and he only thought of the picture when the wind began to rise for the enormous rarity--” “That that mendacious young cad who has bamboozled Grace,” Lord Theign broke in, “tried to befool us, for his beggarly reasons, into claiming for it?” Lady Sandgate renewed her mild influence. “Ah, the knowing people haven’t had their last word--the possible Mantovano isn’t exploded _yet!_” Her noble friend, however, declined the offered spell. “I’ve had enough of the knowing people--the knowing people are serpents! My picture’s to take or to leave--and it’s what I’ve come back, if you please, John, to say to your man to his face.” This declaration had a report as sharp and almost as multiplied as the successive cracks of a discharged revolver; yet when the light smoke cleared Lady Sand-gate at least was still left standing and smiling. “Yes, why in mercy’s name can’t he choose _which?_--and why does he write him, dreadful Breckenridge, such tiresome argumentative letters?” Lord John took up her idea as with the air of something that had been working in him rather vehemently, though under due caution too, as a consequence of this exchange, during which he had apprehensively watched his elder. “I don’t think I quite see _how_, my dear Theign, the poor chap’s letter was so offensive.” In that case his dear Theign could tell him. “Because it was a tissue of expressions that may pass current--over counters and in awful newspapers--in _his_ extraordinary world or country, but that I decline to take time to puzzle out here.” “If he didn’t make himself understood,” Lord John took leave to laugh, “it must indeed have been an unusual production for Bender.” “Oh, I often, with the wild beauty, if you will, of so many of his turns, haven’t a notion,” Lady Sandgate confessed with an equal gaiety, “of what he’s talking about.” “I think I never miss his weird sense,” her younger guest again loyally contended-- “and in fact as a general thing I rather like it!” “I happen to like nothing that I don’t enjoy,” Lord Theign rejoined with some asperity-- “and so far as I do follow the fellow he assumes on my part an interest in his expenditure of purchase-money that I neither feel nor pretend to. He doesn’t want--by what I spell out--the picture he refused at Dedborough; he may possibly want--if one reads it so--the picture on view in Bond Street; and he yet appears to make, with great emphasis, the stupid ambiguous point that these two ‘articles’ (the greatest of Morettos an ‘article’!) haven’t been ‘by now’ proved different: as if I engaged with him that I myself would so prove them!” Lord John indulged in a pause--but also in a suggestion. “He must allude to your hoping--when you allowed us to place the picture with Mackintosh--that it would show to all London in the most precious light conceivable.” “Well, if it hasn’t so shown” --and Lord Theign stared as if mystified-- “what in the world’s the meaning of this preposterous racket?” “The racket is largely,” his young friend explained, “the vociferation of the people who contradict each other about it.” On which their hostess sought to enliven the gravity of the question. “Some--yes--shouting on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and priggishness and all the rest of it is exactly what poor Breckenridge asked almost on his knees, wonderful man, to be _allowed_ to pay you for; since even if the meddlers and chatterers haven’t settled anything for those who know--though which of the elect themselves after all _does_ seem to know?--it’s a great service rendered him to have started such a hare to run!” Lord John took freedom to throw off very much the same idea. “Certainly his connection with the whole question and agitation makes no end for his glory.” It didn’t, that remark, bring their friend back to him, but it at least made his indifference flash with derision. “His ‘glory’--Mr. Bender’s glory? Why, they quite universally loathe him--judging by the stuff they print!” “Oh, here--as a corrupter of our morals and a promoter of our decay, even though so many are flat on their faces to him--yes! But it’s another affair over there where the eagle screams like a thousand steam-whistles and the newspapers flap like the leaves of the forest: _there_ he’ll be, if you’ll only let him, the biggest thing going; since sound, in that air, seems to mean size, and size to be all that counts. If he said of the thing, as you recognise,” Lord John went on, “‘It’s going to be a Mantovano,’ why you can bet your life that it _is_--that it has _got_ to be some kind of a one.” His fellow-guest, at this, drew nearer again, irritated, you would have been sure, by the unconscious infelicity of the pair--worked up to something quite openly wilful and passionate. | often, with the wild beauty, if you will, of so many of his turns, haven’t a notion,” Lady Sandgate confessed with an equal gaiety, “of what he’s talking about.” “I think I never miss his weird sense,” her younger guest again loyally contended-- “and in fact as a general thing I rather like it!” “I happen to like nothing that I don’t enjoy,” Lord Theign rejoined with some asperity-- “and so far as I do follow the fellow he assumes on my part an interest in his expenditure of purchase-money that I neither feel nor pretend to. He doesn’t want--by what I spell out--the picture he refused at Dedborough; he may possibly want--if one reads it so--the picture on view in Bond Street; and he yet appears to make, with great emphasis, the stupid ambiguous point that these two ‘articles’ (the greatest of Morettos an ‘article’!) haven’t been ‘by now’ proved different: as if I engaged with him that I myself would so prove them!” Lord John indulged in a pause--but also in a suggestion. “He must allude to your hoping--when you allowed us to place the picture with Mackintosh--that it would show to all London in the most precious light conceivable.” “Well, if it hasn’t so shown” --and Lord Theign stared as if mystified-- “what in the world’s the meaning of this preposterous racket?” “The racket is largely,” his young friend explained, “the vociferation of the people who contradict each other about it.” On which their hostess sought to enliven the gravity of the question. “Some--yes--shouting on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.” “He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!” “What he’d _like_ to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.” “A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend. “Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand” --the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum. Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?” His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures--which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.” “Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim. “Didn’t he let us know at Dedborough,”<|quote|>Lord John asked of the master of that seat,</|quote|>“that he had no use, as he said, for lower values?” “I’ve heard him remark myself,” said their companion, rising to the monstrous memory, “that he wouldn’t take a cheap picture--even though a ‘handsome’ one--as a present.” “And does he call the thing round the corner a cheap picture?” the proprietor of the work demanded. Lord John threw up his arms with a grin of impatience. “All he wants to do, don’t you see? is to prevent your _making_ it one!” Lord Theign glared at this imputation to him of a low ductility. “I offered the thing, as it was, at an estimate worthy of it--and of _me_.” “My dear reckless friend,” his young adviser protested, “you named no figure _at all_ when it came to the point----!” “It _didn’t_ come to the point! Nothing came to the point but that I put a Moretto on view; as a thing, yes, perfectly” --Lord Theign accepted the reminding gesture-- “on which a rich American had an eye and in which he had, so to speak, an interest. That was what I wanted, and so we left it--parting each of us ready but neither of us bound.” “Ah, Mr. Bender’s bound, as he’d say,” Lady Sand-gate interposed-- “‘bound’ to make you swallow the enormous luscious plum that your appetite so morbidly rejects!” “My appetite, as morbid as you like” --her old friend had shrewdly turned on her-- “is my own affair, and if the fellow must deal in enormities I warn him to carry them elsewhere!” Lord John, plainly, by this time, was quite exasperated at the absurdity of him. “But how can’t you see that it’s only a plum, as she says, for a plum and an eye for an eye--since the picture itself, with this huge ventilation, is now quite a different affair?” “How the deuce a different affair when just what the man himself confesses is that, in spite of all the chatter of the prigs and pedants, there’s no really established ground for treating it as anything but the same?” On which, as having so unanswerably spoken, Lord Theign shook himself free again, in his high petulance, and moved restlessly to where the passage to the other room appeared to offer his nerves an issue; all moreover to the effect of suggesting to us that something still other than what he had said might meanwhile work in him behind and beneath that quantity. The spectators of his trouble watched him, for the time, in uncertainty and with a mute but associated comment on the perversity and oddity he had so suddenly developed; Lord John giving a shrug of almost bored despair and Lady Sandgate signalling caution and tact for their action by a finger flourished to her lips, and in fact at once proceeding to apply these arts. The subject of her attention had still remained as in worried thought; he had even mechanically taken up a book from a table--which he then, after an absent glance at it, tossed down. “You’re so detached from reality, you adorable dreamer,” she began-- “and unless you stick to _that_ you might as well have done nothing. What you call the pedantry and | The Outcry |
he said, | No speaker | walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in | an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always | was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an | in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it. There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again. "Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be | the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left. There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it. There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again. "Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don't know, I'd better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn't seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the | the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir. At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left. There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it. There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again. "Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don't know, I'd better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn't seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age. For now we flaunt ourselves before the public. We have our breakfast on a balcony on a balcony, if you please overlooking Leicester Square." "And what do the people say?" asked Syme. "It's quite simple what they say," answered his guide. "They say we are a lot of jolly gentlemen who pretend they are anarchists." "It seems to me a very clever idea," said Syme. "Clever! God blast your impudence! Clever!" cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile. "When you've seen Sunday for a split second you'll leave off calling him clever." With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square. It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental. It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look. But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright | when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque. So this inhuman landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human. To Syme's exaggerative mind the bright, bleak houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon. But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon. The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil went comparatively slowly. The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break. It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing Cross. The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them. They were big and black against the huge white dawn. They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones of horrible and heathen kings. He leapt out of the boat on to one slimy step, and stood, a dark and slender figure, amid the enormous masonry. The two men in the tug put her off again and turned up stream. They had never spoken a word. CHAPTER V. THE FEAST OF FEAR At first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river. As a figure he was quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir. At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left. There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it. There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again. "Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don't know, I'd better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn't seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age. For now we flaunt ourselves before the public. We have our breakfast on a balcony on a balcony, if you please overlooking Leicester Square." "And what do the people say?" asked Syme. "It's quite simple what they say," answered his guide. "They say we are a lot of jolly gentlemen who pretend they are anarchists." "It seems to me a very clever idea," said Syme. "Clever! God blast your impudence! Clever!" cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile. "When you've seen Sunday for a split second you'll leave off calling him clever." With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square. It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental. It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look. But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright and clear. Between the open square and the sunlit leaves and the statue and the Saracenic outlines of the Alhambra, it looked the replica of some French or even Spanish public place. And this effect increased in Syme the sensation, which in many shapes he had had through the whole adventure, the eerie sensation of having strayed into a new world. As a fact, he had bought bad cigars round Leicester Square ever since he was a boy. But as he turned that corner, and saw the trees and the Moorish cupolas, he could have sworn that he was turning into an unknown Place de something or other in some foreign town. At one corner of the square there projected a kind of angle of a prosperous but quiet hotel, the bulk of which belonged to a street behind. In the wall there was one large French window, probably the window of a large coffee-room; and outside this window, almost literally overhanging the square, was a formidably buttressed balcony, big enough to contain a dining-table. In fact, it did contain a dining-table, or more strictly a breakfast-table; and round the breakfast-table, glowing in the sunlight and evident to the street, were a group of noisy and talkative men, all dressed in the insolence of fashion, with white waistcoats and expensive button-holes. Some of their jokes could almost be heard across the square. Then the grave Secretary gave his unnatural smile, and Syme knew that this boisterous breakfast party was the secret conclave of the European Dynamiters. Then, as Syme continued to stare at them, he saw something that he had not seen before. He had not seen it literally because it was too large to see. At the nearest end of the balcony, blocking up a great part of the perspective, was the back of a great mountain of a man. When Syme had seen him, his first thought was that the weight of him must break down the balcony of stone. His vastness did not lie only in the fact that he was abnormally tall and quite incredibly fat. This man was planned enormously in his original proportions, like a statue carved deliberately as colossal. His head, crowned with white hair, as seen from behind looked bigger than a head ought to be. The ears that stood out from it looked larger than human ears. He was enlarged terribly | nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir. At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left. There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it. There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong. The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague. "If we walk up towards Leicester Square,"<|quote|>he said,</|quote|>"we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?" "No," said Syme. "Nor have I," answered the man in an ordinary tone. "I shall try to get to bed after breakfast." He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again. "Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don't know, I'd better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn't seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age. For now we flaunt ourselves before the public. We have our breakfast on a balcony on a balcony, if you please overlooking Leicester Square." "And what do the people say?" asked Syme. "It's quite simple what they say," answered his guide. "They say we are a lot of jolly gentlemen who pretend they are anarchists." "It seems to me a very clever idea," said Syme. "Clever! God blast your impudence! Clever!" cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile. "When you've seen Sunday for a split second you'll leave off calling him clever." With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square. It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental. It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look. But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright and clear. Between the open square and the sunlit leaves and the statue and the Saracenic outlines of the Alhambra, it looked the replica of some French or even Spanish public place. And this effect increased in Syme the sensation, which in many shapes he had had through the whole adventure, the eerie sensation of having strayed into a new world. As a fact, he had bought bad cigars round Leicester Square ever since he was a boy. But as he turned that corner, and saw the trees and the Moorish cupolas, he could have sworn that he was turning into an unknown Place de something or other in some foreign town. At one corner of the square there projected a kind of angle of a prosperous but quiet hotel, the bulk of which belonged to a street behind. In the wall there was one large French window, probably the window of a large coffee-room; and outside this window, almost literally overhanging the square, was a formidably buttressed balcony, big enough to contain a dining-table. In fact, it did contain a dining-table, or more strictly a breakfast-table; | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it." | Mr. Brownlow | to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat | He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is | whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought | his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over." "I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is | and dropped into it again. "I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again." "Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow. "Oliver Twist you knew him as," replied Rose. The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over." "I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see the application of that remark." "Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow; "he does not mean what he says." "Yes, he does," growled Mr. Grimwig. "No, he does not," said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. "He'll eat his head, if he doesn't," growled Mr. Grimwig. "He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does," said Mr. Brownlow. "And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it," responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, | Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon. "Dear me," said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, "I beg your pardon, young lady I imagined it was some importunate person who I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray." "Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken. "That is my name," said the old gentleman. "This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?" "I believe," interposed Miss Maylie, "that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you." Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again. "I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again." "Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow. "Oliver Twist you knew him as," replied Rose. The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over." "I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see the application of that remark." "Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow; "he does not mean what he says." "Yes, he does," growled Mr. Grimwig. "No, he does not," said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. "He'll eat his head, if he doesn't," growled Mr. Grimwig. "He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does," said Mr. Brownlow. "And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it," responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom. "Now, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow, "to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken." Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend. "Thank God!" said the old gentleman. "This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you, but why not have brought him?" "He | in the streets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such breathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm. "What makes you look so flurried?" asked Rose, advancing to meet him. "I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked," replied the boy. "Oh dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to know that I have told you the truth!" "I never thought you had told us anything but the truth," said Rose, soothing him. "But what is this? of whom do you speak?" "I have seen the gentleman," replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, "the gentleman who was so good to me Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often talked about." "Where?" asked Rose. "Getting out of a coach," replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, "and going into a house. I didn't speak to him I couldn't speak to him, for he didn't see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look here," said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, "here it is; here's where he lives I'm going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak again!" With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven Street, in the Strand. She very soon determined upon turning the discovery to account. "Quick!" she said. "Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are." Oliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat. At no great distance from whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon. "Dear me," said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, "I beg your pardon, young lady I imagined it was some importunate person who I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray." "Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken. "That is my name," said the old gentleman. "This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?" "I believe," interposed Miss Maylie, "that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you." Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again. "I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again." "Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow. "Oliver Twist you knew him as," replied Rose. The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over." "I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see the application of that remark." "Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow; "he does not mean what he says." "Yes, he does," growled Mr. Grimwig. "No, he does not," said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. "He'll eat his head, if he doesn't," growled Mr. Grimwig. "He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does," said Mr. Brownlow. "And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it," responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom. "Now, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow, "to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken." Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend. "Thank God!" said the old gentleman. "This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you, but why not have brought him?" "He is waiting in a coach at the door," replied Rose. "At this door!" cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word. When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface. "Hush!" he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual proceeding. "Don't be afraid. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. You're a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!" In fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former seat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf, Rose Maylie would have been well repaid. "There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye," said Mr. Brownlow, ringing the bell. "Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please." The old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and dropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders. "Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, rather testily. "Well, that I do, sir," replied the old lady. "People's eyes, at my time of life, don't improve with age, sir." "I could have told you that," rejoined Mr. Brownlow; "but put on your glasses, and see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will you?" The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But Oliver's patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his first impulse, he sprang into her arms. "God be good to me!" cried the old lady, embracing him; "it is my innocent boy!" "My dear old nurse!" cried Oliver. "He would come back I knew he would," said the old lady, holding him in her arms. "How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is dressed again! Where have you | on the top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon. "Dear me," said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising with great politeness, "I beg your pardon, young lady I imagined it was some importunate person who I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray." "Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose, glancing from the other gentleman to the one who had spoken. "That is my name," said the old gentleman. "This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?" "I believe," interposed Miss Maylie, "that at this period of our interview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I wish to speak to you." Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped into it again. "I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again." "Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow. "Oliver Twist you knew him as," replied Rose. The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long deep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach. Mr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss Maylie's, and said,<|quote|>"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."</|quote|>"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face. "He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; "and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many who have numbered his days six times over." "I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't see the application of that remark." "Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow; "he does not mean what he says." "Yes, he does," growled Mr. Grimwig. "No, he does not," said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke. "He'll eat his head, if he doesn't," growled Mr. Grimwig. "He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does," said Mr. Brownlow. "And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it," responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom. "Now, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow, "to return to the subject in which your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence you have of this poor child: allowing me to promise that I exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably shaken." Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend. "Thank God!" said the old gentleman. "This is great happiness to me, great happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must pardon my finding fault with you, but why not have brought him?" "He is waiting in a coach at the door," replied Rose. "At this door!" cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach, without another word. When the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table; sitting in it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped | Oliver Twist |
"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me." | Mrs. Miller | night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with | striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at | it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never | of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very | indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there | interposed Daisy. "Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; | hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker s wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas! It would have been most unkind; he had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him." "About the streets?" cried Daisy with her pretty stare. "Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. "I m a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl." "You re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff." "You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again." "Don t do that; when I am angry I m stiffer than ever. But if you won t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don t understand that sort of thing here." "I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. "Not in young unmarried women." "It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones," Daisy declared. "Well," said Winterbourne, "when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn t exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother--" "Gracious! poor Mother!" interposed Daisy. "Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else." "He isn t preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. "And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends." "Ah!" rejoined Winterbourne, "if you are in love with each other, it is another affair." She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this ejaculation; but she immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him. She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker s little party. One Sunday afternoon, having gone to St. Peter s with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said: "That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." "I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. "He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." "You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions | with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t want her to go away without me."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker s drawing room, he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance. Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance; but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous. At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader s part, I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him, it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies; he had a pleasant sense that he should never | Daisy Miller |
"You lazy bum!" | Bill Gorton | them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in | "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for | in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture | hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled | two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece | a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man | down?" "Down is the best. They're plenty up above, too." Bill went down the bank. "Take a worm can." "No, I don't want one. If they won't take a fly I'll just flick it around." Bill was down below watching the stream. "Say," he called up against the noise of the dam. "How about putting the wine in that spring up the road?" "All right," I shouted. Bill waved his hand and started down the stream. I found the two wine-bottles in the pack, and carried them up the road to where the water of a spring flowed out of an iron pipe. There was a board over the spring and I lifted it and, knocking the corks firmly into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numbed. I put back the slab of wood, and hoped nobody would find the wine. I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the dam. I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to pull up I felt that I had one and brought him, fighting and bending the rod almost double, out of the boiling water at the foot of the falls, and swung him up and onto the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head against the timber so that he quivered out straight, and then slipped him into my bag. While I had him on, several trout had jumped at the falls. As soon as I baited up and dropped in again I hooked another and brought him in the same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'" "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers." "Where did you know him?" "He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together." "And Frankie Fritsch." "It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham." "Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning." "It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself." "You're cock-eyed," I said. "On wine?" "Why not?" "It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity away." "Have another shot." "Is this all we've got?" "Only the two bottles." "Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately. "No," I said. "You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League." "I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler." "It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president." "Well," I said, "the saloon must go." "You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go, and I will take it with me." "You're cock-eyed." "On wine?" "On wine." "Well, maybe I am." "Want to take a nap?" "All right." We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees. "You asleep?" "No," Bill said. "I was thinking." I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. "Say," Bill said, "what about this Brett business?" "What about it?" "Were you ever in love with her?" "Sure." "For how long?" "Off and on for a hell of a long time." "Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella." "It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more." "Really?" "Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it." "You aren't sore I asked you?" "Why the hell should I be?" "I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face. "Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?" "Technically." "What does that mean?" "I don't know." "All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by talking so much." I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill | looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of fems, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch. It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. "Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam. "Six. What did you get?" Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. "How are yours?" "Smaller." "Let's see them." "They're packed." "How big are they really?" "They're all about the size of your smallest." "You're not holding out on me?" "I wish I were." "Get them all on worms?" "Yes."<|quote|>"You lazy bum!"</|quote|>Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns. "Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache." "Let's try it." The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. "That's not such filthy wine," Bill said. "The cold helps it," I said. We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. "Chicken." "There's hard-boiled eggs." "Find any salt?" "First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that." "He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday." "No. Not really?" "Yes. Bryan's dead." Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. "Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg." "Wonder what day God created the chicken?" "Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks." "Eat an egg." Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. "Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?" "After you, brother." Bill took a long drink. "Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'" "Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this." We uncorked the other bottle. "What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?" "I loved Bryan," | The Sun Also Rises |
continued Jordan, | No speaker | splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to | the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and | “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did | clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to | gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!” “I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out | road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel. The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!” “I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of | thousand dollars. I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other. “ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how I do enjoy it.” “What’s the matter, Daisy?” I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before. “Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ” She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow. But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas. I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel. The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!” “I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. V When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. “Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said. “Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car.” “It’s too late.” “Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made use of it all summer.” “I’ve got to go to bed.” “All right.” He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness. “I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.” “Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” “What day would suit you?” “What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, you see.” “How about the day after tomorrow?” He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the grass cut,” he said. We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass. “There’s another little thing,” he | that everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice of hers … Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” “It was a strange coincidence,” I said. “But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” “Why not?” “Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. “He wants to know,”<|quote|>continued Jordan,</|quote|>“if you’ll invite Daisy to your house some afternoon and then let him come over.” The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. “Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” “He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” Something worried me. “Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” “He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is right next door.” “Oh!” “I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: “ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I want to see her right next door.’ “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and | The Great Gatsby |
"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" | No speaker | abroad?" She was silent. "Greece"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"Greece; but you were to | were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"Greece; but you were to be married this year, I | 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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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 | 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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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 | 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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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. | 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." "Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd." "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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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" | 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." "Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd." "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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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 people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine," 'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.' "I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already | 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"<|quote|>"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"</|quote|>"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 people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it | A Room With A View |
"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" | Mr. Knightley | and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before | the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to | Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken | were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, | be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment | so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--" "In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not | strengthened yours." "Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then" "-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion" "-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then" "-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm" "-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--" "In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily." When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her | the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,<|quote|>"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"</|quote|>It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill-health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said she.--" "In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more." Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. "_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, | Emma |
I laughed. | No speaker | as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. | as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were | than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as | like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more | that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear the touch of any one—it is one of my idiosyncrasies. With my disengaged hand I struck him a vigorous blow on the nose, and wrenching myself free sprang away, saying, “How dare you lay a finger on me! If you attempt such a thing again I’ll make short work of you. Mark my words, or you’ll get something more than a bleeding nose next time, I promise you.” “You’ll hear more of this! You’ll hear more of this! You fierce, wild, touch-me-not thing,” he roared. “Yes; my | feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear the touch of any one—it is one of my idiosyncrasies. With my disengaged hand I struck him a vigorous blow on the nose, and wrenching myself free sprang away, saying, “How dare you lay a finger on me! If you attempt such a thing again I’ll make short work of you. Mark my words, or you’ll get something more than a bleeding nose next time, I promise you.” “You’ll hear more of this! You’ll hear more of this! You fierce, wild, touch-me-not thing,” he roared. “Yes; my motto with men is touch-me-not, and it is your own fault if I’m fierce. If children attempt to act the role of a man with adult tools, they are sure to cut themselves. Hold hard a bit, honey, till your whiskers grow,” I retorted as I departed, taking flying leaps over the blossom-burdened flower-beds. At tea that night, after gazing interestedly at Mr Hawden’s nose for some time, uncle Julius inquired, “in the name of all that’s mysterious, what the devil have you been doing to your nose? You look as though you had been on the spree.” I was quaking lest he would get me into a fine scrape, but he only muttered, “By Jove!” with great energy, and glowered menacingly across the table at me. After tea he requested an interview with grannie, which aroused my curiosity greatly. I was destined to hear all about it next morning. When breakfast was over grannie called me into her room and interviewed me about Mr Hawden’s interview. She began without any preliminaries: “Mr Hawden has complained of your conduct. It grieves me that any young man should have to speak to me of the behaviour of my own grand-daughter. He | I am not competent to sing to you,” I said brusquely, and made my exit. “Mr Hawden wants you, Sybylla,” called aunt Helen. “See what he wants and let him get away to his work, or your grannie will be vexed to see him loitering about all the morning.” “Miss Sybylla,” he began, when we were left alone, “I want to apologize to you. I had no right to plague you, but it all comes of the way I love you. A fellow gets jealous at the least little thing, you know.” “Bore me with no more such trash,” I said, turning away in disgust. “But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?” “Do with what?” “My love.” “Love!” I retorted scornfully. “There is no such thing.” “But there is, and I have found it.” “Well, you stick to it—that’s my advice to you. It will be a treasure. If you send it to my father he will get it bottled up and put it in the Goulburn museum. He has sent several things there already.” “Don’t make such a game of a poor devil. You know I can’t do that.” “Bag it up, then; put a big stone to make it sink, and pitch it in the river.” “You’ll rue this,” he said savagely. “I may or may not,” I sang over my shoulder as I departed. CHAPTER TWELVE One Grand Passion I had not the opportunity of any more private interviews with Everard Grey till one morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear the touch of any one—it is one of my idiosyncrasies. With my disengaged hand I struck him a vigorous blow on the nose, and wrenching myself free sprang away, saying, “How dare you lay a finger on me! If you attempt such a thing again I’ll make short work of you. Mark my words, or you’ll get something more than a bleeding nose next time, I promise you.” “You’ll hear more of this! You’ll hear more of this! You fierce, wild, touch-me-not thing,” he roared. “Yes; my motto with men is touch-me-not, and it is your own fault if I’m fierce. If children attempt to act the role of a man with adult tools, they are sure to cut themselves. Hold hard a bit, honey, till your whiskers grow,” I retorted as I departed, taking flying leaps over the blossom-burdened flower-beds. At tea that night, after gazing interestedly at Mr Hawden’s nose for some time, uncle Julius inquired, “in the name of all that’s mysterious, what the devil have you been doing to your nose? You look as though you had been on the spree.” I was quaking lest he would get me into a fine scrape, but he only muttered, “By Jove!” with great energy, and glowered menacingly across the table at me. After tea he requested an interview with grannie, which aroused my curiosity greatly. I was destined to hear all about it next morning. When breakfast was over grannie called me into her room and interviewed me about Mr Hawden’s interview. She began without any preliminaries: “Mr Hawden has complained of your conduct. It grieves me that any young man should have to speak to me of the behaviour of my own grand-daughter. He says you have been flirting with him. Sybylla, I scarcely thought you would be so immodest and unwomanly.” On hearing this my thoughts of Frank Hawden were the reverse of flattering. He had persecuted me beyond measure, yet I had not deigned to complain of him to either uncle, grannie, or auntie, as I might reasonably have done, and have obtained immediate redress. He had been the one to blame in the case, yet for the rebuffs he had brought upon himself, went tattling to my grandmother. “Is that all you have to say, grannie?” “No. He wants to marry you, and has asked my consent. I told him it all rested with yourself and parents. What do you say?” “Say,” I exclaimed, “grannie, you are only joking, are you not?” “No, my child, this is not a matter to joke about.” “Marry that creature! A boy!” I uttered in consternation. “He is no boy. He has attained his majority some months. He is as old as your grandfather was when we married. In three years you will be almost twenty, and by that time he will be in possession of his property which is very good—in fact, he will be quite rich. If you care for him there is nothing against him as I can see. He is healthy, has a good character, and comes of a high family. Being a bit wild won’t matter. Very often, after they sow their wild oats, some of those scampy young fellows settle down and marry a nice young girl and turn out very good husbands.” “It is disgusting, and you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, grannie! A man can live a life of bestiality and then be considered a fit husband for the youngest and purest girl! It is shameful! Frank Hawden is not wild, he hasn’t got enough in him to be so. I hate him. No, he hasn’t enough in him to hate. I loathe and despise him. I would not marry him or any one like him though he were King of England. The idea of marriage even with the best man in the world seems to me a lowering thing,” I raged; “but with him it would be pollution—the lowest degradation that could be heaped upon me! I will never come down to marry any one—” here I fell a victim to a flood of | morning near his departure, when we happened to be alone on the veranda. “Well, Miss Sybylla,” he began, “when I arrived I thought you and I would have been great friends; but we have not progressed at all. How do you account for that?” As he spoke he laid his slender shapely hand kindly upon my head. He was very handsome and winning, and moved in literary, musical, and artistic society—a man from my world, a world away. Oh, what pleasure I might have derived from companionship with him! I bit my lip to keep back the tears. Why did not social arrangements allow a man and a maid to be chums—chums as two men or two maids may be to each other, enjoying each other without thought beyond pure platonic friendship? But no; it could not be. I understood the conceit of men. Should I be very affable, I feared Everard Grey would imagine he had made a conquest of me. On the other hand, were I glum he would think the same, and that I was trying to hide my feelings behind a mask of brusquerie. I therefore steered in a bee-line between the two manners, and remarked with the greatest of indifference: “I was not aware that you expected us to be such cronies—in fact, I have never given the matter a thought.” He turned away in a piqued style. Such a beau of beaux, no doubt he was annoyed that an insignificant little country bumpkin should not be flattered by his patronage, or probably he thought me rude or ill-humoured. Two mornings later uncle Jay-Jay took him to Gool-Gool _en route_ for Sydney. When departing he bade me a kindly good-bye, made me promise to write to him, and announced his intention of obtaining the opinion of some good masters are my dramatic talent and voice, when I came to Sydney as promised by my grandmother. I stood on the garden fence waving my handkerchief until the buggy passed out of sight among the messmate-trees about half a mile from the house. “Well I hope, as that dandified ape has gone—and good riddance to him—that you will pay more heed to my attentions now,” said Mr Hawden’s voice, as I was in the act of descending from the fence. “What do you mean by your attentions?” I demanded. “What do I mean! That is something like coming to business. I’ll soon explain. You know what my intentions are very well. When I am twenty-four, I will come into my property in England. It is considerable, and at the end of that time I want to marry you and take you home. By Jove! I would just like to take you home. You’d surprise some English girls I know.” “There would be more than one person surprised if I married you,” I thought to myself, and laughed till I ached with the motion. “You infernal little vixen! What are you laughing at? You’ve got no more sense than a bat if such a solemn thing only provokes your mirth.” “Solemn—why, it’s a screaming farce!” I laughed more and more. “What’s a farce?” he demanded fiercely. “The bare idea of you proposing to me.” “Why? Have I not as much right to propose as any other man?” “Man!”<|quote|>I laughed.</|quote|>“That’s where the absurdity arises. My child, if you were a man, certainly you could propose, but do you think I’d look at a boy, a child! If ever I perpetrate matrimony the participant in my degradation will be a fully developed man—not a hobbledehoy who falls in love, as he terms it, on an average about twice a week. Love! Ho!” I moved in the direction of the house. He barred my path. “You are not going to escape me like that, my fine lady. I will make you listen to me this time or you will hear more about it,” and he seized me angrily by the wrist. I cannot bear the touch of any one—it is one of my idiosyncrasies. With my disengaged hand I struck him a vigorous blow on the nose, and wrenching myself free sprang away, saying, “How dare you lay a finger on me! If you attempt such a thing again I’ll make short work of you. Mark my words, or you’ll get something more than a bleeding nose next time, I promise you.” “You’ll hear more of this! You’ll hear more of this! You fierce, wild, touch-me-not thing,” he roared. “Yes; my motto with men is touch-me-not, and it is your own fault if I’m fierce. If children attempt to act the role of a man with adult tools, they are sure to cut themselves. Hold hard a bit, honey, till your whiskers grow,” I retorted as I departed, taking flying leaps over the blossom-burdened flower-beds. At tea that night, after gazing interestedly at Mr Hawden’s nose for some time, uncle Julius inquired, “in the name of all that’s mysterious, what the devil have you been doing to your nose? You look as though you had been on the spree.” I was quaking lest he would get me into a fine scrape, but he only muttered, “By Jove!” with great energy, and glowered menacingly across the table at me. After tea he requested an interview with grannie, which aroused my curiosity greatly. I was destined to hear all about it next morning. When breakfast was over grannie called me into her room and interviewed me about Mr Hawden’s interview. She began without any preliminaries: “Mr Hawden has complained of your conduct. It grieves me that any young man should have to speak to me of the behaviour of my own grand-daughter. He says you have been flirting with him. Sybylla, I scarcely thought you would be so immodest and unwomanly.” On hearing this my thoughts of Frank Hawden were the reverse of flattering. He had persecuted me beyond measure, yet I had not deigned to complain of him to either uncle, grannie, or auntie, as I might reasonably have done, and have obtained immediate redress. He had | My Brilliant Career |
He turned to me abruptly. | No speaker | doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself | guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of | certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I | or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not | now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been | of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at | behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited | about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful."<|quote|>He turned to me abruptly.</|quote|>"Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?" I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted. "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
“I told you I went there,” | Gatsby | be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, | This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know | have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an | didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced | “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have | of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your | and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside | Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.<|quote|>“I told you I went there,”</|quote|>said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five | The Great Gatsby |
They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night. | No speaker | let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have | gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong | for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the | dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices reached her as they | for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself her present self was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her | low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up." "If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself her present self was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to leave her. As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with "Ah! _si tu savais_," and every verse ended with "_si tu savais_." Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. XV When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle. As she seated herself and was about to begin | and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on Tonie's slow, Acadian drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up." "If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself her present self was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to leave her. As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with "Ah! _si tu savais_," and every verse ended with "_si tu savais_." Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. XV When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle. As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her all the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say he was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in the afternoon, when she went down to the beach. She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided. Edna's face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she never thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. "When is he going?" she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert were not there to answer for himself. "To-night!" "This very evening!" "Did you ever!" "What possesses him!" were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French and English. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. "How can a person start off from Grand Isle to Mexico at a moment's notice, as if he were going over to Klein's or to the wharf or down to the beach?" "I said all along I was going to Mexico; I've been saying so for years!" cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects. Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle. "Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going to-night," she called out. "Really, this table is getting to be more and more like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes I hope God will forgive me but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would lose the power of speech." Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, of which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself. Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would be more logic in thus disposing of old people | up." "If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"<|quote|>They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.</|quote|>"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since early this morning?" she said at parting. "All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night." He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return. She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself her present self was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to leave her. As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with "Ah! _si tu savais_," and every verse ended with "_si tu savais_." Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. XV When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle. As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her simultaneously that Robert was | The Awakening |
"Katharine Hilbery!" | Mary Datchet | "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant | not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve | her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, | shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs | her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat | street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by a musical and familiar voice behind him, accompanied by | of things, in a decent community even, there s no doubt you shouldn t have anything to do with me seriously, that is." "You forget that I m not an ideal character, either," said Mary, in the same low and very earnest tones, which, in spite of being almost inaudible, surrounded their table with an atmosphere of concentration which was quite perceptible to the other diners, who glanced at them now and then with a queer mixture of kindness, amusement, and curiosity. "I m much more selfish than I let on, and I m worldly a little more than you think, anyhow. I like bossing things perhaps that s my greatest fault. I ve none of your passion for" here she hesitated, and glanced at him, as if to ascertain what his passion was for "for the truth," she added, as if she had found what she sought indisputably. "I ve told you I m a liar," Ralph repeated obstinately. "Oh, in little things, I dare say," she said impatiently. "But not in real ones, and that s what matters. I dare say I m more truthful than you are in small ways. But I could never care" she was surprised to find herself speaking the word, and had to force herself to speak it out "for any one who was a liar in that way. I love the truth a certain amount a considerable amount but not in the way you love it." Her voice sank, became inaudible, and wavered as if she could scarcely keep herself from tears. "Good heavens!" Ralph exclaimed to himself. "She loves me! Why did I never see it before? She s going to cry; no, but she can t speak." The certainty overwhelmed him so that he scarcely knew what he was doing; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and although he had quite made up his mind to ask her to marry him, the certainty that she loved him seemed to change the situation so completely that he could not do it. He did not dare to look at her. If she cried, he did not know what he should do. It seemed to him that something of a terrible and devastating nature had happened. The waiter changed their plates once more. In his agitation Ralph rose, turned his back upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by a musical and familiar voice behind him, accompanied by a light touch upon his shoulder. "I m not mistaken? Surely Mr. Denham? I caught a glimpse of your coat through the window, and I felt sure that I knew your coat. Have you seen Katharine or William? I m wandering about Lincoln looking for the ruins." It was Mrs. Hilbery; her entrance created some stir in the shop; many people looked at her. "First of all, tell me where I am," she demanded, but, catching sight of the attentive shopman, she appealed to him. "The ruins my party is waiting for me at the ruins. The Roman ruins or Greek, Mr. Denham? Your town has a great many beautiful things in it, but I wish it hadn t so many ruins. I never saw such delightful little pots of honey in my life are they made by your own bees? Please give me one of those little pots, and tell me how I shall find my way to the ruins." "And now," she continued, having received the information and the pot of honey, having been introduced to Mary, and having insisted that they should accompany her back to the ruins, since in a town with so many turnings, such prospects, such delightful little half-naked boys dabbling in pools, such Venetian canals, such old blue china in the curiosity shops, it was impossible for one person all alone to find her way to the ruins. "Now," she exclaimed, "please tell me what you re doing here, Mr. Denham for you _are_ Mr. Denham, aren t you?" she inquired, gazing at him with a sudden suspicion of her own accuracy. "The brilliant young man who writes for the Review, I mean? Only yesterday my husband was telling me he thought you one of the cleverest young men he knew. Certainly, you ve been the messenger of Providence to me, for unless I d seen you I m sure I should never have found the ruins at all." They had reached the Roman arch when Mrs. Hilbery caught sight of her own party, standing like sentinels facing up and down the road so as to intercept her if, as they expected, she had got lodged in some shop. "I ve found something much better than ruins!" she exclaimed. "I ve found two friends who told me how to find you, which I could never have done without them. They must come and | upon Mary, and looked out of the window. The people in the street seemed to him only a dissolving and combining pattern of black particles; which, for the moment, represented very well the involuntary procession of feelings and thoughts which formed and dissolved in rapid succession in his own mind. At one moment he exulted in the thought that Mary loved him; at the next, it seemed that he was without feeling for her; her love was repulsive to him. Now he felt urged to marry her at once; now to disappear and never see her again. In order to control this disorderly race of thought he forced himself to read the name on the chemist s shop directly opposite him; then to examine the objects in the shop windows, and then to focus his eyes exactly upon a little group of women looking in at the great windows of a large draper s shop. This discipline having given him at least a superficial control of himself, he was about to turn and ask the waiter to bring the bill, when his eye was caught by a tall figure walking quickly along the opposite pavement a tall figure, upright, dark, and commanding, much detached from her surroundings. She held her gloves in her left hand, and the left hand was bare. All this Ralph noticed and enumerated and recognized before he put a name to the whole Katharine Hilbery. She seemed to be looking for somebody. Her eyes, in fact, scanned both sides of the street, and for one second were raised directly to the bow window in which Ralph stood; but she looked away again instantly without giving any sign that she had seen him. This sudden apparition had an extraordinary effect upon him. It was as if he had thought of her so intensely that his mind had formed the shape of her, rather than that he had seen her in the flesh outside in the street. And yet he had not been thinking of her at all. The impression was so intense that he could not dismiss it, nor even think whether he had seen her or merely imagined her. He sat down at once, and said, briefly and strangely, rather to himself than to Mary: "That was Katharine Hilbery." "Katharine Hilbery? What do you mean?" she asked, hardly understanding from his manner whether he had seen her or not. "Katharine Hilbery," he repeated. "But she s gone now."<|quote|>"Katharine Hilbery!"</|quote|>Mary thought, in an instant of blinding revelation; "I ve always known it was Katharine Hilbery!" She knew it all now. After a moment of downcast stupor, she raised her eyes, looked steadily at Ralph, and caught his fixed and dreamy gaze leveled at a point far beyond their surroundings, a point that she had never reached in all the time that she had known him. She noticed the lips just parted, the fingers loosely clenched, the whole attitude of rapt contemplation, which fell like a veil between them. She noticed everything about him; if there had been other signs of his utter alienation she would have sought them out, too, for she felt that it was only by heaping one truth upon another that she could keep herself sitting there, upright. The truth seemed to support her; it struck her, even as she looked at his face, that the light of truth was shining far away beyond him; the light of truth, she seemed to frame the words as she rose to go, shines on a world not to be shaken by our personal calamities. Ralph handed her her coat and her stick. She took them, fastened the coat securely, grasped the stick firmly. The ivy spray was still twisted about the handle; this one sacrifice, she thought, she might make to sentimentality and personality, and she picked two leaves from the ivy and put them in her pocket before she disencumbered her stick of the rest of it. She grasped the stick in the middle, and settled her fur cap closely upon her head, as if she must be in trim for a long and stormy walk. Next, standing in the middle of the road, she took a slip of paper from her purse, and read out loud a list of commissions entrusted to her fruit, butter, string, and so on; and all the time she never spoke directly to Ralph or looked at him. Ralph heard her giving orders to attentive, rosy-checked men in white aprons, and in spite of his own preoccupation, he commented upon the determination with which she made her wishes known. Once more he began, automatically, to take stock of her characteristics. Standing thus, superficially observant and stirring the sawdust on the floor meditatively with the toe of his boot, he was roused by a musical and familiar voice behind him, accompanied by a light touch upon his shoulder. "I m not mistaken? Surely Mr. Denham? I caught a glimpse of your coat through | Night And Day |
"Why, Mas' Don," | Jem Wimble | disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like | here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever | nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the | Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. | all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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 | anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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; | and dashed away. Then one brilliantly decked in gold and silver and blue came floating by, and Don watched it eagerly, wishing the while that he had a line. He was leaning over the side in this way, gazing down at the water, now about four feet deep where the boat had swung, when he became aware of something pale and shadowy some little distance off. Looking at it in a sloping direction made the ocean water seem so dense that he could not make out what it was for some little time. At first it seemed to be a dimly-seen patch of seaweed; then it appeared to be too regular and rounded, and it struck him that it must be a large transparent jelly-fish floating in with the tide, till he made out that it was continued backward from him, and that it was larger than he had imagined; and as he looked the object gradually grew plainer and more distinct. It was still shadowy and grey, and had a peculiar, strange attraction, which made him lean more over the side till a curious nightmare-like sensation came over him, and as he realised that the object was alive, and that he was looking down at two strange dull eyes, he felt that he could not shrink back, although the creeping chilly feeling which came over him seemed like a warning of danger. Then it all appeared more like a dream, in which he was striving hard to get away, and all the time obliged to crouch there gazing at that creature whose eyes were fixed upon him, and which imperceptibly grew plainer to his sight. The intensity of the position grew more and more painful during what appeared to be a long time. He tried to call to Jem, who was asleep not six feet away, but his mouth felt dry. He endeavoured to reach out and kick him, but he could not stir, and still the creature advanced till, all at once, there was a tremendous disturbance in the water; something seemed to rise and strike him a violent blow in the chest, and the next moment he was seated in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking violently, and staring stupidly at Jem, who sat up staring back. "What yer do that for?" cried Jem angrily. "I'd only just closed my eyes." "I did not do anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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 | but his mouth felt dry. He endeavoured to reach out and kick him, but he could not stir, and still the creature advanced till, all at once, there was a tremendous disturbance in the water; something seemed to rise and strike him a violent blow in the chest, and the next moment he was seated in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking violently, and staring stupidly at Jem, who sat up staring back. "What yer do that for?" cried Jem angrily. "I'd only just closed my eyes." "I did not do anything," faltered Don, shivering. "Yes, you did!" cried Jem. "Asked me to sit up and watch, and I'd ha' done it. Needn't ha' played tricks." "I--I--" "There, don't say you didn't, Mas' Don. Boat's rocking now, and you'd better swab up that water. Nice row there'd be if the skipper come back and found the boat all wet." Jem picked up the swab and began to remove the water himself, and in doing so he noticed Don's face. "Why, hullo, Mas' Don! What's the matter? You look as white as--Why, what now?" Jem was about to lean over the side and wring the swab, when Don sprang astern and dragged him back. "Look! Look!" he cried, pointing. Jem followed the direction of the pointing finger, and shrank away with a shudder. "What? A shark!" he exclaimed. "Yes; it rose at me out of the water, and struck me in the chest, and I fell back, and so did he." "Ugh!" ejaculated Jem, as he seized the boathook, and rested it on the gunwale. "Don't touch, it," whispered Don; "it may spring out of the water at you." "It had better not," said Jem. "Hah!" He drove the boathook down with all his might, striking the great fish just as it was slowly rising toward the surface, close to the boat; and so well aimed was the stroke, that there was a tremendous swirl in the water, the side near Jem resounded with a heavy blow from the fish's tail, and the boathook seemed to be snatched out of the striker's hand to go slowly sailing away oceanward. "Look at that!" cried Jem. "Why, I must have driven it right into him. How are we to get it back?" "Watch it," said Don, excitedly. "It will come out and float directly." Don's prophecy did not come to pass, for as they watched, they saw about a foot of the boathook shaft stand sloping out of the water, and go here and there in a curious manner. "Let's row after it," suggested Don. "Wouldn't be no good, Mas' Don; and we've got nothing to fight him with but pistols. Let him be, and the thing will soon wriggle out." Jem proved as far wrong as his companion, for, after a time, as they watched and saw the end of the shaft bob here and there; it suddenly disappeared about fifty yards away.<|quote|>"Why, Mas' Don,"</|quote|>said Jem, laughing, "it's like fishing; and after biting ever so long, the float's gone right under water. Now's your time. Strike!" "And we've no line," said Don, who was beginning to get rid of his nervous sensation. "No, we haven't a line," said Jem. "Keep your eye on the place where he went down; we mustn't lose that hitcher. Say, it won't do to try and swim ashore. That's a shark, that is, and a big one, too. Did he hurt you?" "Not much. It was like a tremendous blow with somebody's fist. Look!" "Told you so!" cried Jem. "Here he comes with a rush to give us back the boathook." "Or to attack the boat," said Don, as the end of the shaft suddenly appeared away to their right; and then came rapidly nearer in a direct line for where they were. "Not he," said Jem sturdily. "Too stupid." All the same, there was soon a peculiar rising in the water coming direct for them, 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 | Don Lavington |
So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason. | No speaker | near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a | Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. | did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry | meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!" Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. "What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. "The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him." "They took this way?" demanded Harry: "are you sure?" "As I am | had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!" Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. "What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. "The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him." "They took this way?" demanded Harry: "are you sure?" "As I am that the men were at the window," replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. "The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap." The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save | "it is he, sure enough. Come away." "He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?" The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There there at the window close before him so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!" Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. "What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. "The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him." "They took this way?" demanded Harry: "are you sure?" "As I am that the men were at the window," replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. "The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap." The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before. "This is strange!" said Harry. "Strange?" echoed the doctor. "Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it." Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery. On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; | wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive. One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep. There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him. "Hush, my dear!" he thought he heard the Jew say; "it is he, sure enough. Come away." "He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?" The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There there at the window close before him so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!" Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. "What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. "The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him." "They took this way?" demanded Harry: "are you sure?" "As I am that the men were at the window," replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. "The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap." The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before. "This is strange!" said Harry. "Strange?" echoed the doctor. "Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it." Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery. On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself. Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room: was able to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts of all. But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there: even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides. At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments. "A few a very few will suffice, Rose," said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. "What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated." Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed. "I I ought to have left here, before," said Harry. "You should, indeed," replied Rose. "Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had." "I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions," said the young man; "the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, | him of his voice, and of power to move! There there at the window close before him so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV. CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!" Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once. "What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was standing in a corner. "That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I missed them in an instant." "Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me, as you can."<|quote|>So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep near him. Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter. On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit. The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent footsteps, to be seen. They stood now, on the summit of a little hill, commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same reason.</|quote|>"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie. "Oh no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now." "Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together. "The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear to him." "They took this way?" demanded Harry: "are you sure?" "As I am that the men were at the window," replied Oliver, pointing down, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from the meadow. "The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to the right, crept through that gap." The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before. "This is strange!" said Harry. "Strange?" echoed the doctor. "Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it." Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles | Oliver Twist |
"So she did." | Noah Claypole | "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady | "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to | Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and | but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half | same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because | against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You | drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. "Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?" Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment gone. "Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here." "No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not you're not the person, Bill. I've no no fault to find with you." "Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter." "I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, "will make you worse than me." "Aye?" returned the robber with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost." "Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, already." Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly. "Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!" "Suppose that lad that's laying there" Fagin began. Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. "Well!" he said, resuming his former position. "Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach to blow upon us all first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water, but of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what then?" "What then!" replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs upon his head." "What if I did it!" cried Fagin almost in a yell. "I, that knows so much, and could hang so many besides myself!" "I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the lady, she ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did she gave him a drink of laudanum." "Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. "Let me go!" Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. "Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word." The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. "Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!" "Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You won't be" "Well," replied the other. "You won't be too violent, Bill?" The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold." Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. "Get up!" said the man. "It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. "It is," was the reply. "Get up." There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain. "Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. "There's enough light for wot I've got to do." "Bill," said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, "why do you look like that at me!" The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth. "Bill, Bill!" gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear, "I I won't scream or cry not once hear me speak to me tell me what I have done!" "You | his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over it." "You would?" "Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me." "If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or" "I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve them the same." Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leant forward in his chair: looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. "Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's tired tired with watching for her so long, watching for _her_, Bill." "Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back. Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him. "Tell me that again once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. "Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. "That about _Nancy_," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed her?" "Yes." "To London Bridge?" "Yes." "Where she met two people."<|quote|>"So she did."</|quote|>"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did and to describe him, which she did and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did and where it could be best watched from, which she did and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur she did did she not?" cried Fagin, half mad with fury. "All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!" "What did they say, about last Sunday?" "About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why I told yer that before." "Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. "They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, "they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't." "Why why? Tell him that." "Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before," replied Noah. "What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that." "Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see | Oliver Twist |
resumed Bounderby, | No speaker | strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine | like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable | "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a | a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you may be in all respects very happy." "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down. "However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; | "I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!" And she said it with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthrug, corked up the smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, "Now confound this woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in this way!" "I wish with all my heart, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you may be in all respects very happy." "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down. "However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if the same terms" "I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compliment." "Well, ma'am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you do." "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "The proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in the social scale" "Why, of course it is," said Bounderby. "If it was not, ma'am, you don't suppose that I should offer | in a piece of cambric. An operation which, taken in connexion with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested with some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his head. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, "I have no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible woman." "Sir," returned the lady, "this is indeed not the first time that you have honoured me with similar expressions of your good opinion." "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "I am going to astonish you." "Yes, sir?" returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil manner possible. She generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those mittens. "I am going, ma'am," said Bounderby, "to marry Tom Gradgrind's daughter." "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!" And she said it with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthrug, corked up the smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, "Now confound this woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in this way!" "I wish with all my heart, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you may be in all respects very happy." "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down. "However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if the same terms" "I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compliment." "Well, ma'am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you do." "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "The proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in the social scale" "Why, of course it is," said Bounderby. "If it was not, ma'am, you don't suppose that I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you have moved in. Not that _I_ care for such society, you know! But _you_ do." "Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate." "You'll have your own private apartments, and you'll have your coals and your candles, and all the rest of it, and you'll have your maid to attend upon you, and you'll have your light porter to protect you, and you'll be what I take the liberty of considering precious comfortable," said Bounderby. "Sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, "say no more. In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eating the bread of dependence:" she might have said the sweetbread, for that delicate article in a savoury brown sauce was her favourite supper: "and I would rather receive it from your hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for past favours. And I hope, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an impressively compassionate manner, "I fondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you desire, and deserve!" Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that position any more. It was in vain for Bounderby to | actually extends to the soles of my feet, that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of." When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, without looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud and cold held Sissy at a distance changed to her altogether. CHAPTER XVI HUSBAND AND WIFE MR. BOUNDERBY'S first disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do that, or what the consequences of the step might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from the premises; whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she would break her heart, or break the looking-glass; Mr. Bounderby could not all foresee. However, as it must be done, he had no choice but to do it; so, after attempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resolved to do it by word of mouth. On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this momentous purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into a chemist's shop and buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling-salts. "By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, "if she takes it in the fainting way, I'll have the skin off her nose, at all events!" But, in spite of being thus forearmed, he entered his own house with anything but a courageous air; and appeared before the object of his misgivings, like a dog who was conscious of coming direct from the pantry. "Good evening, Mr. Bounderby!" "Good evening, ma'am, good evening." He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew back hers, as who should say, "Your fireside, sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, if you think proper." "Don't go to the North Pole, ma'am!" said Mr. Bounderby. "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, and returned, though short of her former position. Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points of a stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes for some inscrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An operation which, taken in connexion with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested with some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his head. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, "I have no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible woman." "Sir," returned the lady, "this is indeed not the first time that you have honoured me with similar expressions of your good opinion." "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "I am going to astonish you." "Yes, sir?" returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil manner possible. She generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those mittens. "I am going, ma'am," said Bounderby, "to marry Tom Gradgrind's daughter." "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!" And she said it with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthrug, corked up the smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, "Now confound this woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in this way!" "I wish with all my heart, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you may be in all respects very happy." "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down. "However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if the same terms" "I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compliment." "Well, ma'am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you do." "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "The proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in the social scale" "Why, of course it is," said Bounderby. "If it was not, ma'am, you don't suppose that I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you have moved in. Not that _I_ care for such society, you know! But _you_ do." "Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate." "You'll have your own private apartments, and you'll have your coals and your candles, and all the rest of it, and you'll have your maid to attend upon you, and you'll have your light porter to protect you, and you'll be what I take the liberty of considering precious comfortable," said Bounderby. "Sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, "say no more. In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eating the bread of dependence:" she might have said the sweetbread, for that delicate article in a savoury brown sauce was her favourite supper: "and I would rather receive it from your hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for past favours. And I hope, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an impressively compassionate manner, "I fondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you desire, and deserve!" Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that position any more. It was in vain for Bounderby to bluster or to assert himself in any of his explosive ways; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to have compassion on him, as a Victim. She was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the more polite, the more obliging, the more cheerful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary altogether, she; the forlorner Sacrifice and Victim, he. She had that tenderness for his melancholy fate, that his great red countenance used to break out into cold perspirations when she looked at him. Meanwhile the marriage was appointed to be solemnized in eight weeks' time, and Mr. Bounderby went every evening to Stone Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made on these occasions in the form of bracelets; and, on all occasions during the period of betrothal, took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses were made, jewellery was made, cakes and gloves were made, settlements were made, and an extensive assortment of Facts did appropriate honour to the contract. The business was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours did not go through any of those rosy performances, which foolish poets have ascribed to them at such times; neither did the clocks go any faster, or any slower, than at other seasons. The deadly statistical recorder in the Gradgrind observatory knocked every second on the head as it was born, and buried it with his accustomed regularity. So the day came, as all other days come to people who will only stick to reason; and when it came, there were married in the church of the florid wooden legs that popular order of architecture Josiah Bounderby Esquire of Coketown, to Louisa eldest daughter of Thomas Gradgrind Esquire of Stone Lodge, M.P. for that borough. And when they were united in holy matrimony, they went home to breakfast at Stone Lodge aforesaid. There was an improving party assembled on the auspicious occasion, who knew what everything they had to eat and drink was made of, and how it was imported or exported, and in what quantities, and in what bottoms, whether native or foreign, and all about it. The bridesmaids, down to little Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual point of view, fit helpmates for the calculating boy; and there was no nonsense about any of the company. After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed them in the following terms: "Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Since you have done my wife and myself the | evening, Mr. Bounderby!" "Good evening, ma'am, good evening." He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew back hers, as who should say, "Your fireside, sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, if you think proper." "Don't go to the North Pole, ma'am!" said Mr. Bounderby. "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, and returned, though short of her former position. Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points of a stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes for some inscrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An operation which, taken in connexion with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested with some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his head. "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, "I have no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady born and bred, but a devilish sensible woman." "Sir," returned the lady, "this is indeed not the first time that you have honoured me with similar expressions of your good opinion." "Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "I am going to astonish you." "Yes, sir?" returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil manner possible. She generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those mittens. "I am going, ma'am," said Bounderby, "to marry Tom Gradgrind's daughter." "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be happy, sir!" And she said it with such great condescension as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthrug, corked up the smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, "Now confound this woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in this way!" "I wish with all my heart, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; "that you may be in all respects very happy." "Well, ma'am," returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered, though in spite of himself, "I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be." "_Do_ you, sir!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. "But naturally you do; of course you do." A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby's part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and forbearance. "Well, ma'am,"<|quote|>resumed Bounderby,</|quote|>"under these circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome here." "Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that!" Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior manner, and a little changed the small cough coughing now, as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down. "However, ma'am," said Bounderby, "there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if the same terms" "I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compliment." "Well, ma'am, annual compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you do." "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "The proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in the social scale" "Why, of course it is," said Bounderby. "If it was not, ma'am, you don't suppose that I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you have moved in. Not that _I_ care for such society, you know! But _you_ do." "Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate." "You'll have your own private apartments, and you'll have your coals and your candles, and all the rest of it, and you'll have your maid to attend upon you, and you'll have your light porter to protect you, and you'll be what I take the liberty of considering precious comfortable," said Bounderby. "Sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, "say no more. In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eating the bread of dependence:" she might have said the sweetbread, for that delicate article in a savoury brown sauce was her favourite supper: "and I would rather receive it from your hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for past favours. And I hope, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding in an impressively compassionate manner, "I fondly | Hard Times |
"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?" | Mrs. Elton | You must grant me that."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill | very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any | 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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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 | "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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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 | 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." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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 Highbury | 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." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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 Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world." This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed, "My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible. Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton." He had done his duty and could return to his son. "When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next." "Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage--we had disappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair." She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on. "You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the season of the year | 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." "And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--" (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."<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>"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. | Emma |
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